


Fortress Under Siege

by liselle



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik is a Sweetheart, Eventually Smitten Charles, F/M, Forced Marriage, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Build, Smitten Erik
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liselle/pseuds/liselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles once dreamed of deposing his stepfather and claiming his rightful place on the throne once Raven reaches the age of majority and is set free. </p>
<p>Erik's invasion of Westchester and his public claiming of Charles changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for another kink meme prompt: Charles, an omega, is the rightful heir to his kingdom, but when his mother dies his alpha stepfather Kurt seizes it, proclaiming that omegas aren't fit to rule, period. Charles submits to his reign to protect himself and Raven, and by extension his people, since Kurt has spies and soldiers everywhere.
> 
> Erik, an alpha, invades the land (either because he wants it, needs it, or he just hates Kurt) and there's a brutal battle before he gets to the palace. He takes the throne, publicly executes Kurt and a few others who support him, and Charles believes he will meet a similar end. Erik, however, publicly claims Charles as his, and they marry. In the early days leading up to the wedding, Charles sees little of Erik except for this cold, forceful exterior, and fears he may face a lifetime of brutality. But once the two are married, Erik is gentle and kind, if initially restrained. He doesn't force himself on Charles, and instead dotes on him, naming him his second in command to the throne (in short, Charles is heir before any of their potential children). At public celebrations Erik keenly shows Charles off; loving his beauty and intelligence, although usually keeps up his cold facade.
> 
> Erik and Charles not only fall in love, but become the best of friends. It's tricky, because Erik despises any anti-omega movements or beliefs, and very much wants omegas and betas to be valued as individuals, but of course has still made himself Charles' King and is undoubtedly enjoying his superiority over everyone. Charles dislikes Erik's violent tendencies, but finds that hard to say out loud since such things led to his and Erik meeting each other. 
> 
> Gently, more from behind the scenes, Charles persuades Erik against further massacres. With Charles' first pregnancy being discovered, Erik does soften a little anyway. And maybe he continues to soften as each child is born.

The gods never came when Westchester fell.

The dust and ashes swirled around his feet as Charles strode through the throne room. The red carpets were grey from the grime that had gathered there throughout the months of this brutal war. He closed his eyes – at least the war is coming to an end. If the new king had any more mercy towards his people than his stepfather, than the gods have truly heard and heeded his prayers.

The echoes of the bells of the King’s Tower reverberated throughout the throne room. One, two, three, four, followed by a deafening silence. The dying song of a lost kingdom. Charles fingered the signet ring hung around his neck – the only symbol of his true heritage that he had managed to keep from Kurt’s hands.  His eyes stung from the smoke blowing in from the battlefield. The Xavier rule was no more, not since the day Kurt seized the throne two years ago. It mattered not that Westchester had fallen in battle, and will now be bathed in the red and gold of the House Lensherr.

The screams of dying men rattled the broken shutters of the castle’s windows. Charles took a deep breath and tried to shut out the pain of their death throes. Lensherr’s army had shown no mercy. The enemy took few prisoners, and had cut their way through Westchester’s ranks with only one objective – to seize the seat of House Xavier, or Marko, as the people now called it.

What hope had he that Lensherr would be a better king than Kurt?

He stood by the windows, uncaring of any stray arrows, watching silently as the red of Lensherr’s army toppled the blue of the imposter’s army. Westchester had lost the war before it even began, the priests had said, only to have their tongues cut out by Kurt. Kurt never had the right to the throne, and he now faced retribution from the gods. Lensherr, for all his cruelty in battle, was born to royalty – the gods favoured him.

Charles looked towards the Sapphire Throne, forlorn in its abandoned glory, its glitter dimmed by the fated defeat of Westchester. He slowly made his way towards it. His father had told him the stories, when Charles was a wee child of four who was barely above his father’s knees. A king should always be at the heart of his people; should Westchester ever fall, and may the ancient gods’ favour forever be upon our House that such a day shall never arrive, a king should be seated upon his throne, if not slain on the battlefield.

Kurt was neither at the battlefield, nor upon the throne, having chosen instead to hide in one of the castle’s many hidden chambers. Charles walked up the dais. It was _his_ throne – _he_ was meant to be crowned on his sixteenth birthday, barely five months ago. At least an Xavier will sit upon this throne in Westchester’s last moments.

Charles sat himself upon the Sapphire Throne, hands folded across his knees with his palms facing upwards, legs spread slightly apart, head held high, just as his father had taught him.  

It was how he greeted the army who crashed through the iron-wrought doors to the great hall. Twenty men in all, every one of them bearing the sword and shield crest of House Lensherr. Their leader was a tall, slender figure – what he lacked in bulk, he made up for in grace as he strode down the hall with the sure confidence of a ruler. Stopping before the dais, he looked up at Charles, and Charles’ breath was arrested the instant their eyes met.

Erik Lensherr - for it could be no one else, although the man’s mind was a strange void to Charles’ Gift - was a strikingly handsome man. Sculptured cheekbones, lips which were thin without being cruel, a hint of reddish stubble to his chin. The sight was marred only by his helmet, which was an odd contraption which curved down towards his jaw and shrouded his features under its shadows.

His eyes, however, were his most striking feature – burnished grey steel which flickered with a cold blue light, and as unreadable to Charles as his mind. Lensherr stood before Charles, his gaze cool and detached, his pose neither that of a supplicant nor a conqueror, and Charles suddenly felt as if he was being silently weighed and judged, although he did not know what he was being judged for.

“Charles!” So caught up was he in Lensherr’s spell, that he did not feel the touch of Raven’s familiar mind before her cry rang out in the vast throne room. _Raven_ , his heart filled suddenly with a cold dread. Why did she not listen to him when he told her to flee?

She was caught by the Genoshan soldiers before she was even midway through the hall. Charles was on his feet and dashing down the dais towards her without realising it, when he was trapped in a strong, unbreakable hold. He lashed out instinctively, the Genoshan soldiers holding his sister dropping like flies at his command.

The grip around his chest tightened, and try as he might, he was unable to even touch the mind of his captor. Bile rose in his throat as he struggled futilely in Lensherr’s grasp, mind scrabbling against the empty void and the agony of men dying all around him.

Raven’s tears, dark blue against her bright blue scales, were his last sight before he finally plunged into darkness.

***

When he came to, he was in a soft bed, wrapped almost to the point of suffocation in warm woollen blankets. Practical, his mind noted idly, unlike the silks that Kurt favoured. His brain, normally hyperaware of his surroundings, was shrouded in a pleasant haze – the minds that he brushed against were muted, blur senseless images of warmth and contentment which melted into his mind.

The room he was in was furnished in warm reds and earthy browns – the furnishings were mostly solid oaks, with delicate sandalwood figurines decorating the mantelpiece and the bedside table to his left. An ivory chess set was spread out on the low table between two high-backed chairs to the right of the room. Books lined the giant floor-to-ceiling bookcases which filled up the remaining wall space.

Sunlight streamed in from the windows, set high above the floor, almost reaching the ceiling in their height. There was a slight chill to the fresh morning air – Charles drew in a deep breath; the scent, which was crisp and sharp, was almost foreign to him. Bizarrely, memories of the stench of burning sulphur and smoke, and the impression of an endless void poured forth. Charles shook his head to clear his mind; he felt displaced. 

There was a rap to the door before two maids entered the room, their arms laden with robes and trays. How strange, Charles thought - it has been a while since he had the privilege of such treatment, as they gently coaxed him out of the bed.  

They dressed him in long robes of white and blue silk, with the graceful ‘X’ of his House embroidered in gold just below the collar against Charles’ own personal motif – the tree of knowledge. As the maid fastened the clasp of his collar, Charles’ eyes fell onto the crest woven into her dress. A shield, crossed by two swords, stitched in silver thread which glinted under the morning sun.

The pleasant haze over his mind lifted a little as reality came crashing down on him. He immediately reached out for his Gift, but it remained elusive, just beyond reach of his fingertips. He shoved the maid servants away, unheeding of their cries of alarm, and darted for the door. His hands, clammy with cold sweat, scrambled at the door knob, which refused to turn.

The door suddenly swung inwards, the solid wood hitting Charles against his forehead and knocking him back. Momentarily catching his breath, he tried to scramble past the tight space between the newcomer and the doorframe, only to be caught like a mouse by his shoulders. Charles looked up into the face of his captor and _gaped_.

The newcomer was _red_. Literally a bright ruby red from head to toe, with a tail that ended with a spear-like tip that swished through the air in impatience.

“Lord Azazel,” the maids exclaimed, dropping into deep curtsies. Charles choked in frustration as his Gift slid over the man’s mind without any effect. He could not even read the man’s thoughts clearly, his Gift catching only flashing images of smoke and colours which made no sense.

“I thought he was meant to be drugged into obedience,” the man, the _Lord_ said. It made sense, then, his incapacity, and why his Gift refused to respond to his orders. The hysteria began to rise, as Charles drew in deep gasps of air which did not quite make it to his lungs. He did not catch the maids’ reply, but whatever it was, apparently they felt that he was not sufficiently subdued, for the man pried open his jaws and held them open with one hand as he poured a thick, sickly sweet liquid down Charles’ throat.

He could feel the liquid taking effect, as even the blurry images that flitted across his mind vanished like smoke into thin air. His fingers clawed helplessly against the man’s skin, and for the first time in his life, he wished that he had kept the long decorated nails which were so popular among omegas. The man barely batted an eyelash at his attempts at scratching, only snorting in contempt and dragging him by his feet through the door and down the corridors. Even moving his limbs was a monumental task now – his movements were leaden, each step feeling as if he was wading through knee-deep mud.

“Of all the ones he could pick, he _had_ to pick one who will try to bite,” the man grumbled, and suddenly, Charles felt a strange suction in the centre of his gravity, as if his body was trying to pull him inwards, before the stone corridors vanished around them into a swirl a smoke. When the smoke finally dissipated, Charles found himself in the centre of large square filled with a dozen gallows, staring straight into a crowd so large that the bodies stretched into the horizon and blended into the backdrop of the city. His mind whirled at the sight of so many human bodies, all mindless creatures which seemed _unreal_ , life-sized puppets with eerily human expressions but no human _mind_.

He stumbled backwards into the man’s arms. “Easy there - ” Red hands reached out to steady him, “Take deep breaths – it will help. Most people find their first time Travelling quite a nauseating experience.” Charles shook his head, no, his problems had nothing to do with the man or his Gift.

Lensherr stood before them, facing the massive crowd in his address. He cut an imposing figure in the dark red robes of his House – no less menacing than the day he stood at Charles’ feet amidst blood and death.

“My treasured subjects, as you all know, we have freed Westchester from the grasp of the usurper and taken her by right of conquest, in the eyes of the gods, who bestow upon us their favour. Today we gather here to witness the execution of the traitor Kurt Marko, who has been taken to trial and convicted of high treason against his rightful King.” Charles’ breath caught when a line of horses trotted into the city square, each drawing a prisoner on a wooden hurdle behind them, with his stepfather at the head of the line.

The crowd burst into an uproar as the executioners dragged the prisoners to their feet and brought them to the gallows. Kurt was led, trembling and pleading, to the only low platform, whilst his staunchest followers were all led to the high platforms. His stepfather had none of the arrogance he wore while he sat upon the throne; dressed only in a plain undershirt with no sign of his coat of arms, a dark patch at the front of his breeches – he had surely soiled himself – he cowered more piteously than the lowliest of thieves.

All the platforms fell in tandem.

Charles forced himself to watch the grisly scene unfold before him, as the crowds’ cheers rose to its heights whilst the prisoners struggled against the nooses tightening around their necks. Barely a moment passed, and the bodies were in spasms, the foul stench of piss and faeces spreading through the square as the dying men lost control of their bowels.

An executioner stepped forward and cut the cord from which Kurt hung from, catching Kurt’s semi-conscious body before it fell to the ground. The executioner delivered a few hard slaps to bring Kurt back to full consciousness.

“For the sufferings of the omegas and betas while the usurper remained on the throne.” Kurt’s soiled pants were tugged to his ankles. Kurt let out a chilling scream as the executioner’s blade flashed downwards, tearing his testicles and penis from him.

 _An omega’s only duty is to spread his legs for his alpha._ Charles closed his eyes briefly.

“For his crimes against his rightful King.” The screams continued as the executioner cut a clean line down Kurt’s torso and tore out his entrails.

_An omega is never fit to rule._

Please die, Charles thought. If he could access his Gift, he would have put Kurt out of his misery.

After what seemed like an eternity, the screams finally came to a stop. The executioner brought his blade down once more and severed Kurt’s head from his lifeless body. The head rolled a few inches across the ground, raising a cloud of dust, and came to a stop a few feet before the dais upon which Charles stood. Kurt’s eyes were wide open, frozen over in the agony of his dying moments.

Charles was led to stand beside the ruler of Genosha, even as the remains of Kurt’s body was tied to four horses and torn apart in a mess of blood and flesh. The smell was cloying, and if Charles had anything in his stomach, he would have thrown up by now.

Please don’t let Raven see me die, he thought. If he had the energy to plead through the haze of the drugs, he would have. Anything, if his sister could be spared the sight of him being put to his death like their stepfather.

He caught sight of Raven at the far end of the dais, hands up against her face, blue skin pale with terror, as he was turned towards Lensherr.

 _Please_ , although the thought could never reach Lensherr’s mind. _My sister is already crying_.

Lensherr’s hands were warm against his neck as he pulled Charles closer to his side. This close, he could smell Lensherr’s scent, even through the piss, shit and blood – Lensherr’s scent was cold and sharp, much like his lands; it reminded Charles of a cold winter’s day, just before the first signs of spring, fresh and almost bewitching.

“In return for the suffering wrought upon Westchester and her fair people, now also my worthy subjects, I take the last true heir of the House Xavier as my consort.”

Charles stood frozen to the spot as Lensherr gently tipped his chin up and to the side, so that his neck was exposed and vulnerable to Lensherr’s touch, to the sight of all of Genosha’s eager onlookers.

Amidst the cheers of the crowd, Lensherr pressed a chaste kiss at the side of his neck, right at the base where his neck connected to his shoulder. Right above the bonding gland.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Raven’s tears had ceased, although her mouth was now wide open in shock.         

He did not know to part his lips when Lensherr, his King, his future _alpha,_ turned his face back towards him and pressed their mouths together.

***

Lensherr let his hands fall from Charles’ face after their mouths parted. Charles remained still, transfixed by the steely gaze which held his eyes, as Lensherr turned his hands over so that his palms were facing skywards. A small ornate blade rose to the air – Lensherr’s Gift, Charles recalled in a daze – and sliced a thin line across both his palms, and Lensherr’s own. Through the haze of the drugs, Charles felt a sharp sting as Lensherr pressed the palms tightly together, sealing their betrothal with the mingling of their blood.

Charles blinked rapidly – it was too soon, too early for him – although he knew that Kurt had planned to sell him off to the wealthiest and most influential suitor he could find once he turned sixteen, actually _knowing_ that his fate was now sealed still made his throat tight with dread. If the circumstances had been any different, Kurt would have been proud – there was after all no one richer or more powerful than Genosha’s monarch.

He rubbed at his eyes when Lord Azazel came forward to pry him away from Lensherr’s grasp. “In five days,” he heard Lord Azazel hiss to Lensherr under his breath, “Surely you can wait that long.”

Lensherr’s face faded from Charles’ sight as Lord Azazel transported Charles back to his bedchambers in the castle. The crimson Lord vanished almost as soon as he deposited Charles on the bed, leaving behind only a trail of smoke and the sharp scent of burning sulphur.

Charles brought his hands to the fastenings of his robes and tried to peel them off his skin. The stench of death was overpowering - Charles inhaled noisily through his mouth as he struggled with the unfamiliar folds and knots of the Genoshan garment. The nausea finally caught up with him, as he stumbled across the room to dry retch into the chamber pot in the corner. The silks slid against the cold sweat of his skin uncomfortably as he tumbled into a heap onto the floor, his chest heaving desperately for air.

A maid servant scurried into the room and gasped at the sight of him – and he _knew_ he must be quite a sight, tangled up in his own clothes, with his blood, _and Lensherr’s blood_ , his mind added helpfully, blotting his cheeks and the white silk of his robes.

“Your Highness,” she said, scrambling to help him up from the floor and to push the heavy robe off his shoulders. He did not miss honorific, _your_ _Highness_ , when previously he may not even be deserving of one, not after Kurt usurped his throne.

“Deep breaths,” she said soothingly. Charles drew in another stuttering gasp, once he was free from the cloying stench of the robes. _Deep breaths_ – Lord Azazel had said the same. The room came into focus; he shivered slightly, stripped down to his undergarments, until she draped a warm velvet cloak over his shoulders. The cloak was deep red, with the Lensherr crest emblazoned over it.

The maid wasn’t one of the two who had dressed him in the morning. A very pretty beta, Charles noted, running his eyes down her delicate fair skin, high cheeks, dusted with a rose-pink complexion, her tall, slender figure. Long auburn curls framed her small face.

“Drink this, your Highness,” she said, pressing a goblet to his mouth, “It will soothe your nerves.” He sipped greedily at the wine, which was sweet and heavy against his taste buds.

“May I have your name, please?” he asked, after he had set the goblet back down onto the serving tray she carried. Was it such a strange question in Genosha, he wondered, watching her big brown eyes blink in surprise at the request.

“Moira, your Highness,” she said, bowing her head, “If it pleases you.”

“It pleases me very much,” he said gently, tipping her head back. “It will please me even more if you will call me by my name.” He closed his eyes as she ran a wet cloth over his face to wipe away the grime from the morning.

“Your Highness -” She was blushing rather fetchingly when he opened his eyes. “It’s hardly appropriate -”

“Charles,” he insisted firmly, taking her hands in his, “At least when we are alone.” She nodded finally, giving his hands a firm squeeze in return. Her hands were slightly smaller than his – not like Lensherr’s, big and too warm against his palms – Charles quickly put a stop to that line of thought.

“Do you always stand on such ceremony in Genosha?” Kurt had been extremely harsh on the servants; Charles grew up having barely spoken more than ten sentences to any of them – Kurt used to have them whipped if he tried – to discourage them from attempting to curry favour from his vapid omega stepson, he had claimed.

“No -” The flush on her cheeks intensified. “We have heard rumours – of Westchesterian culture, how servants are expected to act -” She gasped, realising what she had been implying, and took a few steps back and bowed her head. “I did not mean to offend, your Highness.”

Charles sighed. “You have not.” They were not simply rumours, after all. “My stepfather – he was not a kind man.” Had he deserved to die the way he did? Genosha apparently thought so.

“Oh -” Moira’s pretty face clouded over in understanding. She set aside the wet cloth and went led him to the table, where a meal had already been set out. “Perhaps you should try the breads and cheeses,” she said tactfully, not that Charles had any intention of trying any of the meats spread out before him. “Do try the pears – they are very sweet.”

“Moira -” he asked tentatively, after he had eaten his fill – Moira had not approved of his portions – and climbed into bed. “Will you be here in the morning?”

Moira paused in the middle of drawing up the blankets. He felt her hand brush across his forehead. _He looks so young – bless the gods – he’s only a child._ Charles turned his head into the pillows. His Gift was returning.

“Yes,” she said, softly, just as he was drifting off. “Good night, Charles.”

***


	2. Two

The next morning Charles woke to the pale sunlight of dawn streaming through the high windows. Moira was already in the room, the buzz of her thoughts light and cheerful as she lay out a change of clothes for him. Charles sat at the table and chewed on an apple – Genosha appeared to have a fondness for fresh fruits – very unlike the royal household back in Westchester. Kurt had felt that fresh fruits were demeaning – what he had, he soaked in honey.

“May you take me to my sister?” Moira’s head whipped around in shock. Charles could hear the refusal in her mind before she said the words – he breathed carefully and resisted the urge to change the direction of her thoughts – Moira had been kind to him, after all.

“You can’t see her,” she said gently, “Not before the wedding.” Charles looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers together in frustration.

“You know it may ignite the fury of the gods.” No, he did not.

“Here,” Moira held a small chalice to his lips. “I was told that you have to drink this.” Charles took the chalice and eyed the golden liquid in it. Some kind of cider, perhaps, or mead. He took a small, cautious sip, and immediately slammed the chalice down on the table. It was the elixir that Lord Azazel had forced down his throat – the one that kept him from his Gift.

“No,” he said, “I will not, not unless someone forces it down my throat, as they have already done.” He tried not to choke on his own saliva – surely that tiny sip would not have much effect.

Moira was obviously distressed – her thoughts were laden with worry for him, she will have to lie to her master, she thought fretfully, but she was told that the young Xavier child needed the elixir – he was understandably distraught, and it was said that the elixir would calm him. Oh, her master will surely know if she had lied, but the fear of punishment was inconsequential to her concern for Charles’ wellbeing.

She was truly the kindest person Charles had ever met, other than his own sister. Charles picked up the chalice and drained its contents in one gulp, unheeding of the scalding sensation down his throat, or the liquid that trickled out from the sides of his mouth.

“I have to see his Majesty,” he pleaded, already feeling the numbing effects of the elixir over his limbs. Moira’s eyes went round. “Please, let me see him.”

“You _can’t_ –” she sounded scandalised, “It’s just _not_ permissible, not even his Majesty can risk the wrath of the ancient gods.”

“At least let me send him a note,” he said frantically. He had to do this before he lost control of his faculties. “Just a note – I do not have to see him. _Please_ , Moira.”

Moira was in tears, at a loss over how to deal with Charles’ anxiety, but she ran out and returned with a quill and parchment.

“Thank you,” he said – his right hand already moving over the parchment in a flurry.

 _Your Majesty,_ he wrote _, my heart swells with gratitude at the benevolence and mercy shown by you and your people to my sister and I. We are undeserving, and I embarrass my family’s name by asking any more of you._ He dipped the quill into the inkwell. _My sister and I have never been separated since the day my House took her under our care – she is the only person who has ever held me dear to her heart._

He paused, the ink from the quill leaving a blot that gradually spread across the word. _I will gladly take the elixir that strips me of my powers, if you ask that of me, if you promise me that my sister will be kept safe, and allowed to flourish as one of Genosha’s own._

 _Your most loyal subject, Charles F. Xavier_. He left the ink to dry for a couple of minutes, before folding the parchment and letting Moira seal it with a drop of wax. She hovered by his side for a brief moment before her eyes fell onto his fingers, noticing belatedly that Charles did not wear a signet ring.

“I will deliver this to his Majesty.” Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment – it was unheard of for an heir of a House to not wear a signet ring. For one as old as House Xavier, it was almost a travesty.

Charles walked towards the high windows. The voices in his head had faded away to leave a gaping void. The vast lands of Genosha, sprawled outside his windows, were a sight to behold, but it all felt empty to him.

***

Moira was subdued the next day – her mind was a conflicted mess of concern and worry, but Charles still savoured the few stolen moments he could have – the heat and warmth of another human’s mind. The bread in his mouth tasted like sawdust.

He was surprised when Moira draped the heavy red cloak over his shoulders after she had dressed him. “Would you like -” She fastened the clasp of his collar. “Perhaps you would like to take a walk.” Her thoughts were filled with anticipation – _he will be so happy_ – he tamped down his desire to dip further into her mind.

“Gladly, Moira,” he said, smiling up at her and taking her hand in his.

“Moira,” he said carefully, as they walked down the corridors of the castle, past the curious eyes of the bustling servants. “You did not give me my elixir today – I don’t want you to get into trouble on my account -”

“Oh - that -” She turned towards him, her eyebrows knitted in worry. “Does it hurt? I did not mean to harm you – they thought it would be good for you – to keep the thoughts and voices out of your head. They say it can be hard – especially after -” Guilt welled up in her mind, leaking across Charles’ conscience despite his efforts to grant her a semblance of privacy.

“- you know?” He glanced down at her hand – her fingers were tightly wound around his.

“Of course I do -” Surprise rolled across her mind as they came into view of the courtyard. “We all know of your beautiful Gift.” Beautiful? This was the first time Charles had ever heard his Gift being described as such.

His voice caught in his throat when he saw a painfully familiar blue silhouette race across the courtyard. He leaned out of the window. _Raven_.

“You cannot meet her – but you can watch her from here -” Moira said softly. “Your sister worries for you, but she is well.”

Charles rubbed frantically at the tears rolling down his cheeks as he struggled for words. His sister was as beautiful as always, proud in her blue skin and flaming red hair, which streamed out in the winter breeze as she ran with the other children.

“Thank you,” he choked. Moira’s eyes shone brightly with tears – he was bleeding his emotions into her as he lost control of his Gift. _Raven_ , his mind touched his sister’s briefly - grazed over her concern and worry for him, her relief over his survival, but underneath of all, he realised with a start – Raven was _happy_. Happier than she had ever been in Westchester, as she raced around the courtyard with these Genoshan children.

Charles drew in a deep breath, finally able to breathe freely.

***

With his mind at ease and free from the influence of the drugs, Charles finally explored the collection of books in his bed chambers. He had expected poetry, courtly romances, omega-literature focusing on etiquette and service – not an extensive collection of books on the sciences, biology and chemistry mostly, with a smattering of physics, thick tomes of warfare and battle strategy, politics, geography, classics – his mind reeled at the choices available.

He had his nose buried deep in a treatise on Genoshan economics when Moira came in with his evening meal.

“It is marvellous how advanced your trade policies already are -” he said through a mouthful of fish. Genoshan food was very lightly spiced – unlike the heavy sauces that Westchester cuisine favoured. Charles found he rather preferred the subtler seasonings of this foreign land. “If your trade routes weren’t impeded by your war of conquest -”

Moira smiled. “Genosha is a warring nation - we take pride in it.” She sat herself down at the chair opposite Charles - their easy closeness had long since dispelled any pretence at complying with the social norms expected of them. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the subject, however,” she added ruefully, “I was always more interested in medicines and herbs.”

Charles’ interest was instantly piqued. “Human biology?”

“No, merely herbal practices and remedies,” Her cheeks coloured with embarrassment. “It is nothing -”

“Moira,” Charles reached across the table and caught her hands in his. “You are absolutely wonderful.”

Moira flushed, her pleasure evident even without the use of his Gift. “So are you - you seem so much happier now, Charles.” She leaned forwards. “You could be happy here, Charles.”

“I - will try.” He looked down at his hands. Could he?

“Oh,” Moira said, her face softening under the faint light of the oil lamps. _He is simply too young. What was his Majesty even thinking?_

“How old is he?” Charles asked suddenly, trying not to betray the fact that he had overheard her thoughts.

“Hm?” Moira’s brows knitted in confusion.

“His Majesty - how old -” Charles gnawed at his lip. The memories were burned into his mind - Lensherr standing before him on the dais, red robes flaring out in the winter wind, his stepfather’s screams of agony, the stench of piss and blood.

Moira gripped his hand tightly. “His Majesty turned thirty this fall.”

“Oh,” Charles said dully. He was almost twice Charles’ age.

He turned away so that he did not have to see the look of sympathy on Moira’s face.

***

Charles whiled away his remaining two days watching Raven and reading. Moira was a constant companion by his side - a steady well of comfort whenever he required it. She stayed with him late into the night, their bodies pressed close together - omega to beta - discussing the medicinal usefulness of mandrake roots and hemlock.

When he slept, his dreams were filled with Westchester - not the Westchester tainted by Kurt and ravaged by war - but the Westchester under his father. The Westchester of his House.

The day before the wedding, Moira brought him to the castle’s chapel. The chapel was a modest building at the edge of the castle compound, which was surrounded by towering ancient yew trees. The green foliage of the yew trees cast the chapel into shadows - stepping into the chapel grounds was like stepping into a different world, away from the hustle and bustle of the everyday life of Genosha’s ruling seat.

“I am not allowed to enter,” she said gently, pushing him forward, “But I will wait for you outside here.”

The voices of the outside world were completely silenced once he stepped into the chamber - even the voices in his mind ceased to exist. It was not that he was unable to touch his Gift - there were simply no voices to be heard. The walls of the chapel gleamed with a faint light - metal - he noted curiously, running his fingers down intricate carvings depicting the ancient religion.

He knelt before the altar, unsure of what prayers he should offer Genosha’s ancient gods - so foreign from the deities of Westchester’s beliefs.

Westchester’s gods have turned their backs upon Kurt - the usurper and traitor of Westchester. Would they have done the same, if Charles had worn the crown when Lensherr’s army approached? If an Xavier had been on the throne?

He closed his eyes - Genosha’s gods would have no use for him or his prayers.

The sun was setting when he emerged from the chapel. Moira looked up from the mending she was doing, and came forward to take his hand. “The ancient gods will answer your prayers,” she said, as they walked back towards the castle. “They have always favoured his Majesty, and you are to be his Consort.” Her mind shone with the strength of her belief.

Charles squeezed her hand tightly.

***

Moira woke him at the crack of dawn - Charles blinked his eyes open blearily; he had not managed to sleep, so anxious of what the day would bring, that he had only fallen asleep when it was close to the third hour of the morning.

Moira had two other maids with her, their arms laden with his ceremonial robes, which they laid out upon the bed before curtseying out of the room.

“You need to eat -” Moira pressed, when Charles refused to take the food she had set out on the table. “You will not last the day with nothing in your stomach.” Charles shook his head - even without any food in it, his stomach felt unsettled - he did not want to throw up in front of an audience.

“Have something to drink, at least.” The drink she made him sip was honeyed milk. When he was finished, she led him behind the screens which were set up in the middle of the room. The sandalwood of the screens glistened with condensation from the hot steam rising from the bath which had been prepared.

Moira remained standing next to him, even after he had stripped down to his undergarments. Charles paused expectantly - he knew that Genoshans very rather more liberal than his people, but he could not yet bring himself to stand naked before a non-family member, even though Moira was a close friend, and a beta.

“This may sting a little -” she said, picking a bowl from the side of bath. It was filled with a curious grey solution. She came forward and pulled at Charles’ drawstrings - he quickly stepped out of his remaining clothing, fighting down the flush that threatened to rise in his cheeks. His cheeks burned anyway when Moira brushed the solution over the light curls of hair around his groin area.

“Just a moment,” she said. There was a slight stinging sensation around the area where she had lathered on the solution; just as it was blossoming into an unbearable heat, she wiped it off with a wet cloth - the sparse hair around his private parts came away with the solution, leaving his skin bare and red, sensitive from the light corrosive qualities of the solution. He turned around once she removed the cloth from his skin - the tips of his ears were hot - which Moira apparently found rather endearing, this Westchesterian modesty of his.

It was a relief when he finally managed to sink into the silky warm water of the bath. Moira had added crushed mint leaves to the bath - their cooling properties helped soothe away the irritation in his groin. When he emerged from the bath, Moira had him lie back down on the bed, and rubbed a cool cream all over his body - jasmine and moonflower - she told him.  He was almost lost in the sensation of her gentle hands massaging the fragrant lotion into his skin, and half-drooping off to sleep again when she finished.

“Charles?” Moira sat down on the bed next to him.

“Hm?”

“When was your first heat?” Charles stiffened - his mind instantly jostled back to wakefulness. He clenched his jaw.

“I have not had it yet.” Moira drew in a noisy breath. Most omegas experienced their first heat when they are thirteen - to have not been through a single heat at sixteen would have been downright humiliating to any normal omega.

Kurt had, of course, been furious when Charles passed his thirteenth year without producing any slick, and had only grown angrier as each year went by without any sign of Charles going into heat. The physicians had been perplexed by his condition - his womb was perfectly healthy - it was just that he was slow in experiencing the heats. Perhaps discomfort for both parties during intercourse, but the young Master is perfectly capable of bearing children.

A dry omega was still a significantly less appealing marriage prospect, it seemed. Kurt had raved and frothed at the mouth - it was not enough for Charles to be an aberration, to be a witch with mind-reading abilities - he also had to be _dry_. Worthless, he may as well be thrown out onto the streets, not even good enough for a whorehouse at this rate - at least the whores could slick.

Charles had felt it was one of the few blessings in his life.

“Charles -” Moira placed a hand on his shoulder hesitantly. “You cannot go to your wedding bed dry -”

“Would you tell his Majesty then, so that I need not go to it at all?” Charles turned around to face her - her fair cheeks were red – she twisted her hands nervously under his searching gaze. _Westchester’s court physicians say that he is not infertile –_ she tried to hide the thought, cutting it off almost as soon as it crossed her mind, but it cut through the silence between them, as loud as if she had screamed it.

“I would think that would be his Majesty’s immediate concern, yes,” Charles replied, immediately regretting the words when Moira’s mind flooded with guilt and shame.

Not infertile – the court physicians had been tactful and politically correct. He was hardly a prize broodmare, definitely far from a high-born alpha’s idea of a desirable mate. It was only to be expected, that he would have a body to match his sullen temperament, Kurt had raged, where was he to find an alpha willing to have an omega who would take the skin off his cock while getting fucked.

Five months after his fifteenth birthday, and two before Lensherr invaded Westchester’s borders, Kurt decided to drug Charles’ drink with _phorea_ potion. If he was unable to slick, perhaps some help would be required – a common drug used by prostitutes who needed to keep their channels ready for hours and days to end, or used on unwilling omegas – it made them surprisingly complacent. Rumour had it that a few drops of the potion would have an omega nun writhing and begging to be filled with cock.

Kurt had dosed Charles’ drink with a whole vial.

It had not driven him into heat, or to even produce any slick – but it _had_ driven Charles wild, screaming his throat raw to the point blood splattered over his fingers when he coughed, in his desperation to get a cock, an omega aid, _anything_ , up his ass. If he could have got his hands onto a candlestick then, he would have happily shoved it up his hole. It had ended with him literally being manhandled by two beta servants to the bed and chained to it for two days, sobbing and biting into the pillow, fingers desperately trying to reach down and into his burning channel, aflame with the need to get penetrated, without even an omega’s slick to soothe the burn.

On the third day, after the sheets were absolutely filthy with his tears and sweat – still no slick – the lust-driven frenzy finally subsided to a manageable slow burn, deep in the pit of his stomach. Kurt had stood at the foot of Charles’ bed, miasma of contempt and disgust pouring off him – _worthless_.

Charles did not know if Moira’s sympathy was any better.

“You will be hurt –” She _was_ concern only about his wellbeing – absurd as it was, when there was her King’s pleasure to be considered. She hurried off to the dresser and returned with a vial and some thin linen.

It was only when she wrapped the linen over her forefinger and middle finger, and dribbled the contents of the vial – olive oil – over them, that Charles realised what she planned to do.

“No.”

“You have to – this is the only way -” Other than the obvious option of _not_ getting married – which was not really an option. Charles stared at the oil trickling through her fingers.

“I will do it myself.” Charles took the vial and the linen from her – the waves of pity which radiated off her almost made his stomach churn – and retreated behind the screens.

The first brush of his bare fingers - slick with oil - against his hole made him shiver. He had touched himself before, just the once, driven into a frenzy by _phorea_ , but it had been an animalistic lust that drove him then, a senseless shoving of his fingers – as many as he could – up his hole, without caring that the penetration had caused him to tear the delicate skin around his anus.

This time, he had to make sure that it was done properly – that he did not tear himself, and also managed to reach deep enough, as deep as Lensherr’s cock could go, because there would be nothing else to ease the way.

Unless, of course, he bled from being torn – then there would be blood, but Charles had no desire of inflicting such pain upon himself. He prayed that his husband did not have such proclivities.

He pressed his finger in, the oil slick against the flesh of his channel. He grimaced at the discomfort – hard to imagine how any pleasure can be derived from having a cock up his ass, not when he was lucid. He pushed until his finger was in to the knuckle, before sliding it out again. In and out – he took a deep breath, before trickling more oil over his fingers, and sliding in another. The discomfort increased to a burn which only intensified as he scissored them apart in an effort to stretch himself.

Tipping the vial over his fingers, he added a third – red blazed across his vision as his body protested against the intrusion. He twisted his fingers, trying to get himself to loosen up, and to spread the oil as much as he could. Clenching his jaw, he added yet more olive oil, before pushing his fingers in all the way, and spreading them as wide as he could. The oil leaked out of his hole and trickled down the sides of his thighs – surely this was enough – he thought, as he held himself open, hole clenching and unclenching against his fingers as Charles tried to draw in deep breaths.

Another trickle of oil dribbled out around his fingers and the edges of his hole, where he was able unable to keep it in. Surely this was what it was like to be in heat, to feel his channels open and fill with omega slick.

Moira peered in around the screens; her expression was carefully blank as she handed him a wooden plug. Charles bit his lower lip as he slowly pressed the plug into his hole, until the base of the plug was flushed against his entrance. His asshole ached, stretched around the plug and filled with oil.

Moira’s gentle fingers pressed against his skin, dabbing a strange fragrance around the bonding gland, at the back of his ears, across his collarbone, and the inside of his wrists. He sniffed his wrists curiously – he did not find the cloying sweet smell particularly pleasant.

“Omega fragrance,” Moira said, wiping her fingers off with a wet cloth. “As you have not yet experienced your first heat.” Charles let his hands drop. Of course, being unable to slick, his body did not produce the omega scent that tantalised alphas and drove them wild. He wondered if Lensherr had heard any rumours of his ailment - Kurt had guarded the secret zealously, although the servants could have talked regardless, despite their deep fear of his stepfather.

Moira held out his under-robe for him to slip his arms into - the cotton sleeves reached slightly past his knuckles, with the hems of his robe almost touching the ground. The robe was pure white, a sign of his innocence and virginity. Omegas were meant to lie upon it when they were being taken, so that the first blood from having an alpha in them for the very first time will stain the robe and mark them as finally bonded.

The sash which held his robe together was looped into a loose knot which could be easily undone with a slight tug. A second robe, this time of heavy blue silk with the crest of his House embroidered in gold and silver was draped over the under-robe. The garment settled over his shoulders with a soft rustle, the luxurious silks clinging to his figure and spreading out over the floor in a pool of sapphire and gold. The neck of the robe was fastened with a clasp that bore his personal emblem - an intricate web of branches and leaves that made up the tree of knowledge - a dichotomy of good and evil.

“You do not need any stain on your lips.” There was a tinge of envy to Moira’s voice. Charles wondered why - she was not an omega, after all - there was no need for her to entice alphas, to ensure that they would choose to claim and breed her.

His lips were an asset - one of his few redeeming features, Kurt had said, in the face of his many defects. Kurt, sat upon his bed with an omega lady-in-waiting on her knees, making Charles watch as she sucked him off. _Watch_ , _see how she moves her head, how she swirls her tongue, watch, idiot boy, this is the only way you can hope to get married._

Himself, just turned thirteen, on his knees and choking on Kurt’s cock, the musk and stink threatening to suffocate him when Kurt grabbed his hair and shoved the full length of his hard flesh down Charles’ throat.

 _Fool, use your tongue to cover your teeth, **suck**_ **, _harder_** _, you idiot_. Tears prickling at the sides of his eyes, welling up and finally rolling down his cheeks, as he failed to perform satisfactorily or learn fast enough. His fingers scrabbling helplessly at Kurt’s knees when his head was pulled back, and Kurt began roughly fucking his mouth in earnest.

His control of his Gift had slipped when Kurt finally reached his release, the bitter semen overpowering his taste buds and trickling out from the sides of his mouth. A servant had rushed into the room and pulled Kurt off him, as Charles collapsed to his side, retching up the contents of his last meal with the remnants of Kurt’s come.

The slightest of transgressions, and Kurt had the servant’s hands chopped off before Charles’ eyes.

He had to improve, or next time, it was going to be Raven. An alpha, but one with a promising Gift, Kurt had snarled, perhaps she would be a little more skilled as an omega than Charles. A fist to his stomach - if he tried using that filthy Gift of his again, if he even _thought_ of using it against Kurt, it was going to be knife in Raven’s heart. Kurt had made sure that his followers would at least see this through, if his vile excuse of an ungrateful stepson decided one day that killing his stepfather in his sleep would be a grand idea.

Charles had fallen to his knees and sucked as best as he could.

Kurt would be vindicated, he thought, if Lensherr liked his mouth. He turned his face to the side as Moira dusted the a faint amount of rouge to his cheeks - just to bring out some colour, she said, although he knew that it was because he was overly pale.

Moira fastened a silk belt which was embroidered with rosettes of pearl and silver around his waist, and dusted his eyelashes and lined his eyes with charcoal. The last, a pair of silver earrings, intricately worked into his personal motif, with sapphires embedded into the tips of each branch, were hooked into his ears.

“Here,” Moira said, turning him to face the mirror. Charles felt he looked very small under the weight of his wedding robe. Moira pulled his hair back to display the earrings - and so she should, for they were indeed the most delicate and finely wrought pieces of jewellery he had ever seen. The flame of the sapphires danced under the firelight as he tilted his head to the side to study them.

“He will love you,” Moira said softly. Charles considered his reflection - love was never a necessity in a marriage. Kurt had never loved his mother, who was so far gone in her grief after his father’s death that she could no longer love anyone else, not even her own son.

“What is he like?” he asked. He had seen only fleeting glimpses of Genosha’s monarch in Moira’s mind - she was more concerned with Charles’ wellbeing and her daily chores - but he sensed the profound respect and love of a subject for her King.

He also knew that the King loved bloodshed, believed in retribution, and spared no thought for forgiveness.

“He is just,” Moira’s voice was reverent, almost tender, as she spoke of her ruler, “Courageous, intelligent, although some choose to call him cunning. He is also young.” Smiling, she took a brush and began to comb Charles’ hair, pulling at the strands until they almost shone under the pale morning light which crept in through the windows. “Very young, for a King. He was crowned when he was barely eighteen.”

Her smile turned fond. “No ruler loves his people more than he does.”

“I am not Genoshan,” Charles blurted. Moira’s hand stilled in mid-stroke - his words can only be construed as treason, just an hour before he walked down the aisle. Her knowledge that he even _thought_ the way he did was enough to destroy him, if she wanted to use it. _If_ he allowed her to use it, which he will not.

It only took a brush of his mind against hers - barely more than the gentlest of touches - and she was back to her task, the memory of those traitorous words erased from her mind.

 _I am sorry_ , he thought, although she could not hear it, when she finally put down the brush and took up his hand. He trusted her as much as he could anyone in this foreign country, but it was a mistake he could not let lie, and she was the one to bear the consequences.

The castle was eerily quiet. The servants have all been sent to the Great Hall and kitchens to assist with the preparations, whilst the courtiers and nobles have been warned away from their route. The silks dragged across the polished stone floor as they made their way down the deserted corridors - his asshole still clenched painfully against the wooden plug with each small step - he longed to remove it, however momentarily, just for some slight relief from the constant ache.

Moira led him to a small chamber to the left of the Great Hall. The crimson lord, Azazel, stood waiting for them, cloaked in the Xavier blues and whites, although he wore his own crest of a demon in flames. Of course, being the last Xavier, Charles had no one to lead him down the aisle. Raven was only a fosterling, and a minor - she would not have the right.

“They look fine on you,” Azazel inclined his head towards the earrings, “He will be pleased.” He laughed at Charles’ confused expression. “You have absolutely no idea, do you?” He lifted a delicate veil of lace and silk from the platter that Moira brought forward. “Come, it is time.”

With his vision impeded by the opaque veil, he could rely only on Azazel’s guidance in his movements. Moira gave his hand a last squeeze of comfort, before Azazel linked his arm around Charles and brought him to the entrance of the Great Hall.

There was a fanfare of trumpets which heralded their entrance; a symphony of singing, brass and strings which rose in a crescendo with each slow step they took. His bare feet stepped upon the soft petals of flowers - orange blossoms and lavender, judging from the scent - which were strewn across the smooth stone. The minds of the guests brushed against his shields - traces of joy and excitement seeped through the seams; it did little to calm his nerves, which chose this exact moment to send his heart into small palpitations.

They slowed down at the dais, as Azazel carefully guided him up each step of the stairs. When they reached the top, Azazel removed his arm from Charles’ and pressed his palms into another pair of hands. His future husband had a very distinctive scent - a strange combination of metal and blood, the freshness after torrential rains, and the warmth of spring and chill of winter. The calluses of his fingers were painfully familiar - bringing back to mind Lensherr’s firm grip as he sliced their palms to seal their betrothal, the rough skin over his neck as Lensherr pressed their lips together.

It was Lensherr’s hands which lifted the veil from his face, and Lensherr’s eyes which were the first thing he saw when the hall flickered back into focus. Lensherr was extremely dashing in his green and grey doublet - the soft velvet brought out the strange hue of his eyes, and emphasised his slender figure.

He did not realise that Lensherr was speaking, reciting his vows in the ancient language, until Lensherr fell into a silence, and tightened his grip around Charles’ wrist. The words fell from Charles’ lips, almost unbidden, as he recited his own vows of submission and faithfulness, to obey and guide, to serve and direct. He was gently turned towards the priest when he finished, as they both bowed their heads for the final blessing.

“You may now seal the marriage,” the priest intoned from above them.

Azazel stepped forward with a velvet cloak, with the Lensherr crest embroidered across it in gold - Lensherr accepted the cloak and draped it around Charles’ shoulders. The cloak fell over Charles’ own crest, hiding the last signs of his heritage from the crowd’s eyes. A thorough claiming - body, mind and soul.

The kiss was almost chaste - nothing more than the brush of lips which Lensherr had pressed upon him during the betrothal ceremony of five days ago. Charles could have laughed at the irony of the situation. Most brides were given jewellery for their betrothal gift, but his husband had brought him his stepfather’s body - in five pieces. Surely there would be no greater gift, in Genosha’s eyes, that his husband could give him.

He heard the scandalised gasps of the crowd as Lensherr pushed his hair back behind his ears to display the silver earrings which he wore. Brows knitting in confusion, Charles cast his mind out blindly to make some sense out of the cacophony of thoughts which blared against his own.

 _Ludicrous._ It was a scream of defiance in the face of tradition to have an omega who wore his own personal motif to his wedding, much less an omega of a conquered nation, and one to be wed to his conqueror, the ruler of one of the world’s greatest empires.

Lensherr’s own mind was a wall of calm and resolution as he gently fingered Charles’ earrings. Already, with one simple action, he had given Charles a gift greater than his stepfather’s life.

The gift of being permitted to retain his own identity.

***

The wedding banquet was a gruelling affair, as he was forced to sit through the well wishes from the throngs of wedding guests. Lensherr - and he supposed he needed to think of him as _Erik_ , now they were married - proved to be a genius in steering away unwanted lingerers. A subtle mention of a certain unpaid sum of taxes, an unresolved dispute over in the North - little hints of politics dropped here and there - and it was enough to drive away the more unpleasant of the guests.

More than once, the eyes of an unknown lord or lady would flick towards his earrings - a tightening of his husband’s hand over his, a careful brush of his hand over Charles’ ear to place the silver and sapphires on full display - and the lord or lady would lower their heads, suitably chastened.

There _were_ cups he could not refuse - those offered by the circle of eight, the most trusted knights and advisors of Genosha. Azazel, the Summers brothers, Munroe, Howlett, Cassidy, Munoz, Frost - each and every one Gifted with their own unique abilities. Perhaps there would be opportunities for them to speak, when his mind was clear from the haze brought on by wine, and his ass was not aching from being held open for hours.

“Charles!” A tornado of pink lace and white silk hurled itself into his arms. Raven. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head - it was another transgression, for children were not allowed in the hall. He held her close to his chest; foolish, perhaps, to waste his King’s favour on a few stolen moments with his sister, but he held on to her nonetheless, until Azazel finally beckoned for a serving maid to take her away.

“Not today,” he said, although his voice was not unkind.

Charles stared into his empty wine cup. Perhaps he had drunk a little too much. He had rather lost count.

Despite the heat in his stomach, he felt cold when Lensherr finally took his arm to lead him away from the banquet hall.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual abuse of a minor


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see notes at the end for warnings.

The march up the flights of stairs to their chambers was torture, to say the least. Lensherr’s scent remained thick on his nostrils, strong enough to dispel whatever lucidity he had remaining from the wine. Charles did not think it normal to be so affected by an alpha’s scent – shaking his head did nothing to clear his mind.

Lensherr’s grip over Charles’ hand was tight, almost proprietary, as he pushed open the door to their wedding chambers. The suite had obviously been decorated for the wedding night - orange blossoms were strewn over the stone floor, and candles lined almost every surface available. There was a faint scent of pine, sharp and fresh, and the metallic tang of metal. These chambers were steeped in Lensherr’s scent, Charles realised, as he tried to steady his own breathing.

His husband’s hands were gentle, curiously enough, when he tipped Charles’ jaw up to study his face.

“You wear them well,” he said, touching the earrings in Charles’ ears.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Charles tried not to let his anxiety show, although he could not help the slow curl of it in his gut.

“Erik.” Lensherr, _Erik_ , unclasped the cloak from his shoulders and set it aside on an armchair. There was a slight shift in the air, and Charles felt his earrings unhook themselves from his earlobes. The scent of metal and pine intensified - the air felt almost damp with the heat from their bodies.

Long fingers traced the line of his ear, before Erik leaned in against his neck, where his scent should be strongest, after his hole.

He felt Erik take in a deep breath of the fragrance, before Erik jerked his head back, snarling in frustration. “This is not your scent.”

“I have none,” Charles replied, although the words fell upon empty ears, as Erik went to the wash basin at the bedside and returned to rub at his neck with a wet cloth. Five minutes of scrubbing, behind his ears, his neck, his collarbone, everywhere Charles directed him to, until Charles’ skin was red and Erik was satisfied that none of the fragrance remained. 

Erik’s teeth tugged possessively against the skin above the bonding gland, although he did not claim him. That would come later, after they were knotted. “Never wear those fragrances again,” he said against Charles’ neck.

Charles nodded, although he failed to see the significance - perhaps Erik preferred him to be clean of artificial scents. Satisfied with his acquiescence, Erik pulled him back in and trailed butterfly kisses down his cheek and neck, before returning to Charles’ mouth and pressing their lips together. There was nothing chaste with the kiss, not with how Erik forced his tongue past Charles’ lips, and swiped it across his gums and the ceiling of his mouth. The clatter of his belt against the stone floor - tossed carelessly aside by Erik’s powers - went unnoticed as Erik deepened the kiss, his hands already pushing off the heavy silk robe and pulling loose the sash that held Charles’ under-robe together.

“What is this?” Erik asked, his voice curious as he fingered the gold chain around Charles’ neck. Charles’ breath caught in his throat, hyperaware of the signet ring hidden away in the heavily ornamented locket. His fingers twitched to go to the locket – a nervous mannerism he had not managed to get rid of, despite years of steeling himself against everything that Kurt had thrown at him.

Moira had not questioned the locket’s presence – in fact, it would have been even more curious if Charles did not have a single item of jewellery, despite his status as a deposed heir of a forgotten House. The locket was distinctly masculine, a keepsake from his father, but it was elaborate enough that it did not seem to out-of-place when worn by an omega.

It was child’s play for Erik to unlatch the hidden mechanism with his Gift, and reveal the signet ring hidden in the locket, with a thin gold chain threaded through it to prevent it from tumbling out. Charles’ fingers immediately reached out to clutch the ring – his hand brushed against Erik’s as they both caught the cool, smooth metal at the same time.

It would have been treason in Westchester to wear the signet ring of a past dynasty. Charles refused to let go of the ring in his hands, although he knew that Erik did not need to see the ring to know exactly what it was, not when he had his Gift.

Erik’s hands were gentle as he prised Charles’ fingers away from the signet ring.

“I remember this,” Erik said. Charles kept himself resolutely still as Erik turned the ring over in deft, long fingers. “You have been wearing your ring all along – clever, to hide it from your stepfather all these years.”

Charles’ mind froze over at Erik’s next words. “Clever, and remarkably foolish, to risk it for the sake of what amounts to sentiment.”

Charles could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Hardly _just_ sentiment, your Majesty, when it is all I have to remind me of who I am.” He wanted to bite off his tongue immediately after – he could not risk exercising his powers on Erik’s mind, and unlike Moira, who was simply _human_ , there _was_ a risk of failure with someone who was as strongly gifted as the man before him.

“My apologies then,” Erik said easily, although his tone was almost dismissive; Charles looked down at the ring in Erik’s hands. It was true then, that it meant nothing to anyone but him.

“There is hardly a need to hide it here,” Erik continued, detaching the ring from its chain and twisting it onto Charles’ finger. The ring fit perfectly, although Charles knew that it should have been too big. His father had been a larger man, and Charles had never dared risk bringing it out to have it altered.

His King was slow and sure as he traced the lines of Charles’ face and planted kisses where the warmth of his fingers lingered. Charles remained still through it all, barely breathing, with the cold metal of his ring cutting into the flesh of his palm.

When Erik’s hands, rough with calluses, slid down his waist to the dip between his hipbones and thighs, and roamed even further down still to rub at the soft flesh of his cock - Charles tried valiantly, and failed, to retain control of his Gift. His shields cracked as his body responded to Erik’s touch, and his mind reached out instinctively for Erik’s - to touch in return, the way Erik explored him physically.

Erik’s hands stilled where they had moved to the small of Charles’ back. “Is that your Gift?” he asked, his voice low and soft against Charles’ ear. The hands travelled down across the curve of Charles’ buttocks. “I can feel it - feel _you_ , in my head.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles could not help the tremors than ran through his body when Erik gently kneaded the soft flesh of his ass, as Erik’s right hand moved back to the front and gripped Charles’ cock, running itself up and down the length of his shaft. Charles could feel his flesh hardening, even as his hole pulsed around the hard plug - _gods_ , he needed that plug out before he started screaming.

“Do not be.” Erik sounded fascinated, which was a curiosity in of itself, for Charles had never before encountered a mind as compelling as Erik’s - all sharp angles and rough edges, complex layer upon layer of emotions and thoughts which ebbed and flowed like the tide of the sea. He could lose himself in that mind, if he chose.

“Never be sorry for your Gift,” he said, as he finally reached down in between Charles’ legs. His brows furrowed. “What is this?” he asked, as he nudged at the plug lodged firmly in Charles’ ass.

“I need it - to keep me loose,” Charles said, panting from the slow burn of arousal in his stomach. His face burned from humiliation, even as he tried to restrain himself from thrusting out his ass into Erik’s hand like a whore. His Gift was in tatters - if he had thought of using it against Erik - and he _had_ , ever so briefly, there was no chance of it now, not when their minds were so tightly entwined.

He heaved a sigh of relief when Erik pulled the plug out. The olive oil in his hole trickled down over Erik’s fingers and down the sides of his thighs, hot from the heat of his body.

“And this?” Erik raised his fingers - glistening and slick with oil - to Charles’ face.

“To ease the way -” He refused to feel shame, not in this. “Because I am unable to produce any slick.”

“Perhaps it is because you have never known true pleasure,” Erik said, pushing him backwards towards the bed. The back of Charles’ knees caught at the edges - metal, his mind supplied - as he toppled onto the soft feather mattress.

He pushed Charles’ legs apart. “Relax,” he said, “I will not hurt you.” Charles gritted his teeth and fought to stop the trembling of his legs. Deep breaths. At least Erik had kept his word so far, although Charles doubted that it _was_ possible to prevent a first knotting from hurting, especially for an omega who had not been through a first heat.

It was only Erik’s hands, firm against his hips, which prevented him from arching off the bed when Erik bent down and swallowed his cock. _Fuck_ , he thought, as Erik, his _alpha_ , his _monarch_ , bobbed his head up and down the length of his penis. The tongue swirling around the head was enough to reduce Charles to a helpless heap on the bed, toes scrabbling desperately for purchase as Erik licked the sensitive underside of his cock.

If he thought the sensations from a moment ago were pleasurable, they were nothing compared to when Erik finally managed to take the full length of his cock down his throat. Charles tried desperately not to thrust, as Erik took him right up to the hilt, his nose pressed against the smooth, hairless skin of Charles’ groin. The warm cavern around his cock flexed as Erik swallowed around the hard, swollen flesh, and Charles barely managed to turn his head into the pillow in time to muffle his screams.

If this was what it should have felt like to have your cock sucked, no wonder his stepfather had been so frustrated with Charles’ attempts. His hands slid over the silk coverlets as he tried to find something to grip onto while Erik threatened to pull the life out of him with his mouth, until Erik finally lifted his hands from Charles’ hips and guided his scrambling hands to his hair.

 _Use me_. Charles jolted his hips up at the mental command - he felt Erik’s throat constrict around his cock as Erik tried not to gag on the hard flesh. His hands tightened onto tufts of rough black hair, torn between shoving Erik’s face down onto his cock or pulling him off before Charles managed to do something they would both regret.

He could feel Erik’s fingers move in between his legs to his hole, still slick and dripping with oil, and loose from the plug. A forefinger pushed in, slow and steady, into the pulsing grip of Charles’ hole - he instinctively tried to close his legs, but Erik’s finger crept deeper, sure and resolute, _searching_ , until it struck a spot that made Charles’ vision go white as he released himself down Erik’s throat.

He dimly registered a second finger, preparing and loosening him further - his body was limp from his climax, and trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure, as Erik continued to stimulate his prostate. His inner thighs were soaked in sweat and oil - shaking under Erik’s hands and falling wide apart when Erik released them.

Erik looked _ruined_ when he finally pulled his mouth off Charles’ cock to look up at Charles, with Charles’ come dribbling out from the sides of his mouth and down his chin. Charles stared, entranced, as he rose from the bed, his tall, slender figure stretching languidly as Erik removed his belt, followed by his doublet, his shirt, and finally his breeches. His movements were graceful and unself-conscious, a lean figure with sun-kissed skin which moved in the fluid lines of a dancer, and the ease and strength of a warrior.

When he climbed back onto the bed, his naked body bracketing Charles’ smaller frame, Charles finally dared himself to look down. He had to get fucked to consummate the marriage, which, regardless of his reservations, he knew he _had_ to make last - there _was_ no better political leverage he could have, other than what Erik was offering him, or the _promise_ of what Erik would offer him, after the display at the wedding earlier.

It still was a daunting prospect, made no easier by the sight of his husband’s cock – much larger than his own, proudly erect and jutting up against Erik’s stomach, with pre-come beading at the flushed tip. 

Charles closed his eyes, even though he willed himself to keep his legs parted for Erik to settle in between them. He felt a soft kiss to the side of his neck, and the wet slide of Erik’s tongue against his skin, right up to the back of his ear.

“Open your eyes.” Erik’s tone was stern enough that it left no doubt as to the nature of the command, even if he had not nipped warningly at the soft flesh of Charles’ earlobe.

His husband was - beautiful. Charles was not so obdurate that he refused to see what lay right before his eyes. If the circumstances had been any different, he might even have found Erik irresistibly attractive. Erik’s lashes fanned out against his cheeks as he lowered his head to suck at a nipple, teeth pulling at the sensitive flesh, whilst his fingers pushed into Charles’ hole - still loose and wet - and rubbed relentlessly against Charles’ prostate.

Charles did not know that he had slicked himself with so much oil - even now, the oil leaked out of his entrance as Erik twisted his fingers, crooking them at just the perfect angle that had Charles arching off the bed, his cock already half-hard despite having just released himself barely ten minutes ago.

Erik spread Charles’ legs even further apart and pushed forwards, so that Charles was almost bent into half. From this vantage point, he could see where Erik’s fingers were knuckle-deep in him, and how Erik’s hand glistened with the moisture from Charles’ body. He could not help the moan that fell from his lips when Erik finally pulled his fingers free from the clench of Charles’ hole.

“Shhh –” Erik said, before he lined himself up and _pushed_. Charles thought he stopped breathing for a second; it was barely the head of Erik’s cock, and it was already too much, so much larger than Erik’s fingers, and threatening to split him apart. He snapped his mouth shut - belatedly realising that the high-pitched whines were coming from himself.

“Hush,” From the tone of his voice, Erik may as well be comforting a frightened animal, although the way he caught Charles’ face in his hands and dropped gentle kisses from Charles’ forehead all the way down to his lips was as tender as a lover’s touch.

It seemed forever before something finally gave, and Erik’s cock slid past the outer ring of tight muscle into Charles’ slicked channel; the pain was almost distant - secondary to the foreign feeling of being so deeply penetrated. He thought Erik was making an effort to be gentle, or as gentle as he can be, under the circumstances. The toned muscles of Erik’s chest were glistening with sweat which dripped onto Charles’ skin as he held himself above Charles’ body, straining to remain still while Charles acclimatised himself to his girth.

It must be his Gift - which was so wildly out of control he was almost certain he was bleeding every single sensation of his into Erik - for Erik knew exactly when Charles’ body finally accepted the intrusion. He started with slow, shallow thrusts which slowly picked up in pace, until Erik’s balls were slapping against Charles’ ass as Erik rutted roughly into Charles’ body, his cock slamming against Charles’ prostate with each strong thrust.

He vaguely recalled calling out Erik’s name, the syllables broken against his lips and barely comprehensible; tried asking Erik to slow down, go faster, gentler, harder. He felt as if he was coming apart as the pleasure built up inside him, hot and burning until his body felt as if it was aflame.

It came as a shock, when Erik jerked roughly up into him - he thought he heard his name, although he was so far gone by then he could very well be hallucinating - and the knot swelled against the rim of Charles’ hole, fixing his alpha into place. Charles spilled himself for a second time as Erik’s knot filled his hole to bursting, his come splashing against his stomach as his hole clenched and pulsed around the knot.

He felt Erik’s come splashing against his walls and deep up his channel as Erik pushed forwards, filling Charles up with his seed as his teeth clamped down onto the bonding gland - there _has_ to be a child from this - Charles thought fiercely, even as he screamed and writhed from being claimed. His heart filled with a desperate longing to have a child in his belly. It was the hormones speaking, he knew, an inevitable side effect from being knotted, but at that very moment, he wanted nothing more to be bred continuously, until he was absolutely sure that he carried Erik’s child.

It took a while before the knot subsided enough for Erik to slowly roll over onto his side, taking Charles along with him. Erik’s cock twitched in Charles’ ass, still releasing sporadic spurts of come - a careful brush against Erik’s mind told Charles that Erik was similarly affected by the knot; there was an overwhelming protectiveness, _omega_ , _mate, children_ , an endless litany that shielded the deeper layers of Erik’s mind from Charles’ Gift.

He lay there for a long while, held tightly in Erik’s arms. His limbs felt heavy and languid - he barely realised it when Erik finally managed to pull out of his body and pulled a heavy blanket over both of them before settling back down again.

He dreamed strange dreams that night - of metal cutting through flesh, the fresh scent of pine against the cloying thick scent of blood.

***

The heady scent of pine and musk flooded his senses when Charles blinked his eyes open blearily. The scent was comforting, strong enough that it dispelled Charles’ memories of death and anger, of the strange not-nightmare dreams from the previous night.

It was still early enough that it was dark. There was a morning chill he felt against his face, although he was entirely too warm and comfortable with strong arms wrapped around his waist and a hard chest pressed up against his back.

“You rise early.” Erik sounded approving as he curled himself tighter around Charles’ body. Charles shuddered involuntarily when he felt something wet and soft swipe over the bonding gland, which was still raw and swollen from the claiming. There was a tinge of pain when Erik began sucking at the wound, although the sensitivity quickly faded into a hazy sensation of pleasure.

Charles turned his face to the side, his head hurting from all the wine yesterday. The incessant pounding in his head did not abate when he tried to pull his Gift over himself; Erik shifted uneasily behind him, no doubt feeling the effects of Charles’ migraine second-hand.

His eyes fell onto his under-robe, spread out beneath him. The robe was creased in areas with the dried stains of Erik’s pleasure, and his own. No blood. Charles stared at the stark expanse of white – it could be cause for annulment of the marriage, if Erik took issue with the fact that he did not bleed during the first claiming.

He pulled away from the wet mouth suckling at his neck. “There is no blood for the witnesses,” he said dully. His head was still pounding, although it did nothing to quell the growing fear that he would lose his only leverage in this foreign land, despite the mark on his neck.

“Do they still have that barbaric custom in Westchester then?” Erik asked, his voice cold and emotionless. “That a marriage is not consummated until the sheets are bloody and the omega is unable to walk for a week?”

Charles remained silent. Only for first marriages, he wanted to say. His mother, of course, was not expected to be a virgin. He wasn’t sure if Kurt had even bothered touching her. Kurt had his fetishes.

“We spill our blood on the battlefield.” The frustration leaked out of Erik’s mind and into his voice as he moved to sit up. Charles turned around, feeling strangely bereft as the warmth on his skin quickly dissipated, to see Erik swing his legs over the edge of the bed. There were faint scratch marks on his back – Charles did not even know that he had put them there - that ran down to his narrowly tapered waist.

Charles buried his face back into the pillow when Erik turned around to face him.

There was a rustle as Erik dressed himself - the slight creak of the door moving against its hinges, the hushed sounds of Erik speaking. Charles tried to block out the thoughts of the servant at the door – there was breakfast to be served in an hour, a bath to be prepared in half that, and the more pressing instructions at hand. Muffling a groan into his pillow, he tightened the shields around his mind. If only everyone had a mind as well-honed and disciplined as Erik’s.

He was almost drifting off to sleep again when there was a nudge against his shoulder. “Drink this.” The warmth from the cup pressed against his mouth felt wonderful. Charles winced at the sharp ache deep inside him as he shifted.

His tongue tingled at the sharp taste of ginger laced with lemon and sweetened with honey. The spicy scent cleared his head as he tilted his head back and sipped. The warm liquid was smooth as it ran down his throat.

The throb in his ass grew more pronounced as Charles’ mind gradually cleared. Erik’s left palm, hot and warm against the back of his neck, moved down to small of his back as Erik set aside the empty cup. Feeling the hand press into his back, Charles slowly swung his legs - which felt as heavy as lead - off the bed.

He stumbled on the first step he took, his legs folding beneath him as he collapsed back into Erik’s arms. His thighs hurt, muscles strained from being spread to wide and lifted too high while Erik had fucked into him the previous night. Still, it was nothing compared to the pain in his ass.

Charles dug his heels back against Erik’s attempts to lift him into his arms. No - he would not allow himself to be carried. The humiliation burned; he suspected his ears must be flushed red at the tips.

There was a sharp sense of pleasure that radiated off Erik as he helped Charles towards a door off to the far right corner of the chambers - satisfaction at having fucked Charles to the point of being unable to walk unassisted.

There was a sunken bath spanning half the length of the connecting room, with steam rising out of the bubbling waters. Charles dipped a foot into the water - which was hot - but not unbearably so. The steam clouded his vision as Charles sank gratefully in. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the tiled edges of the bath, letting his aching muscles soak up the comforting heat of the water.

He heard a splash as Erik climbed in after him. He wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to do - at least, not until he was pulled back against a hard chest, and felt Erik’s rough fingers, lathered with soap, rub at his nipples, trace a path down to his navel, before dipping even further down to in between his legs.

Charles tried to calm his breathing when the fingers pressed into his entrance. Even with the water to ease the way, the intrusion still burned, so soon after his first knotting. Breathe in, out, in, out - he turned his head into Erik’s shoulder as Erik’s fingers delved deeper, cleaning the remains of sex out from Charles’ hole. He was almost seated on Erik’s fingers, half-buoyed by the water, when Erik crooked his fingers and hit Charles’ prostate. He could feel Erik’s breathing quicken, as his deft fingers drew a whine out of Charles’ throat.

The hardness nestled in between Charles’ ass cheeks could only be Erik’s cock.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Erik asked. His voice was rough with lust.

 _No, no, and no_. “If my Lord wishes me to,” Charles said, spreading his legs slightly. Erik’s breath hitched. The idea of ownership obviously excited him - the simple acknowledgement itself from Charles’ mouth, an honorific no doubt heard every day in court, seemed to drive him to distraction. Charles breathed in the sharp scent of Erik’s skin - the tang of metal was laced with the spicy scent of musk and arousal.

“What do _you_ want?” Erik asked, even as his cock rubbed insistently against Charles’ hole.

“Anything my Lord desires,” Charles murmured into his neck. This was expected of him; he had to spread his legs, bear Erik his heir, and many children besides, if he could, and in return, he would have the favour of Genosha’s monarch, which value is unparalleled.

He had seen this done before, many times, as Kurt made him watched while he fucked a squealing omega into the mattress. He could do this.

“Please, Erik,” he said, _fuck me_ , and caught the head of Erik’s cock with the fingers of his left hand. Using Erik’s neck as leverage, he tried to push the head of Erik’s cock into his hole - too tight, even with the water, without the oil to ease the way. Breathe. He pushed down with his body, and the head finally slid in with a pop.

“Please -” He was pushed backwards as Erik rutted wildly up into him, right up to the hilt, and commenced fucking him at a breakneck pace. Charles’ mouth fell open as he tried to breathe, short rasps falling from his lips as each deep thrust rattled through his body.

His head fell against the edge of the bath. He stared up at the ceiling, his sight unfocused, as his body shuddered under the strength of his alpha. The watchful eyes of Genosha’s ancient gods, depicted in vivid colours across the ceiling, stared back at him, spread wide open and impaled on the cock of their chosen King, panting and gasping like a whore in heat.   

He tightened his legs around Erik’s waist. It hurt - much more so than it had the first time, when his brain was addled with wine, and his hole slicked with oil. The knot swelled inside him, filling him to the point of bursting - he bit down on Erik’s shoulder, drawing blood as he tried to swallow his screams.

Erik’s hand moved in a flurry over Charles’ cock. _Stop_. “Faster, please,” he begged, licking at the wound he had left on Erik’s shoulder. Erik’s climax, hot and urgent, and matched with Charles’ own, was a relief, as the splatter of come against his walls lured Charles into a daze of contentment, enough for him to ignore the burn in his ass until the knot subsided.

Erik was unbearably gentle when he lifted Charles out of the bath - clean once again, on the surface, at least - and wrapped him in a robe. Charles did not struggle when Erik carried him back to their bed and pulled the blankets over him.

The backs of Erik’s hands were coated with drying blood. He must have placed his hands behind Charles’ back to prevent him from scraping himself against the stone edges - Charles caught Erik’s hand in his own and licked away the blood, not missing the way Erik shuddered under the wet swipe of his tongue over the tender skin.

“Rest -” Erik said, finally pulling his hands away. “The council session is held after the morning drill - I will return for you then.”

 _You wear them well._ Erik’s voice, fond and wondering, rang out in Charles’ mind as he drifted off to sleep.

He certainly _intended_ to.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight dub-con(?)


	4. Four

Charles was barely awake when Moira came in with a tray, the tantalising smell of fresh bread and cheese wafting in through the room at her entrance. Charles took a deep breath – it was a change from Erik’s musk, which somehow still permeated his senses, although the space beside him was already cold.

“How are you feeling?” Moira asked, as she set the tray down and hurried over to give him a hug. _I am well_ , he wanted to say, but the words did not quite make it to his mouth. He nodded instead, giving her a swift kiss on her right cheek.

She could not have missed the mark at the side of his neck - raw, red and eternal.

“He treated you well.” Charles nodded again, despite her not quite phrasing it as a question. She had a very strong faith in her King, a sentiment that was echoed throughout Erik’s inner circle. Charles could still remember the bright flame which burned in the minds of the circle of eight - the unwavering loyalty that his stepfather had never been able to command from his court.

She was worried, though, that her King may not know how to treat one so young. Her mind ran through a quick reel of images of the King’s past dalliances, none as young as him, certainly none who have not yet experienced the first heat. No virgins, his Majesty had no patience for them.

Charles looked away. He had thought that Erik was well pleased with him – perhaps not.

Moira pressed a small jar into his palm. “Salve, for your –” she flushed in embarrassment. “It is better if you apply it now, for it takes a while before the salve takes effect.” She withdrew and let down the canopies.

Charles pushed himself backwards so that he was sitting up against the pillow. Even if he did not have his Gift, the implications were clear enough – he had to give himself as much time to heal as he could, so that he could be ready when his Majesty wanted him again. He dipped a finger into the salve, turned his face into the pillow, and pressed his finger into his body. The touch burned, as his body protested against even this slight intrusion, after being so thoroughly used.

He spread his legs wider apart and added another finger.

“Moira,” he called, finally satisfied that he was thorough enough, although the salve seemed to do nothing to ease the ache.

Moira brought forward a basin, so that he could wash his hands, and set out a change of clothing on the bed. They were no longer the blues and white of his House, but red and gold silk instead, trimmed at the edges with black fur. His husband’s colours, which were unsurprising, compared to the choice of fashion, which was not the traditional omega robes, but a gender neutral doublet and breeches, all fitted to his figure.

He pulled on the clothing and tried to affect a natural gait as he made his way across to the table, but the sharp twinge of sympathy from Moira was enough to dissuade him from further pretence. Might as well set aside his pride, and ask for a cushion, instead of bearing both the discomfort and the weight of Moira’s pity.

He had just finished breaking his fast, when the door burst open, and Raven bounded into the chamber in a flurry of blue lace. Moira inclined her head and withdrew silently with the empty tray, leaving Raven half hanging off Charles’ lap, and asking a dozen questions all at once.

“Are you well?” Her golden eyes were alight with concern.

Charles ran his fingers through the thick strands of her red curls. “You can see that I am.” He gently soothed away her anxiety with a light brush of his Gift.

She sighed contentedly and curled up against his chest. “I’ve heard his Majesty is one of the most powerful Gifted alive. Did he show you?”

“Only in glimpses.”

Raven looked disappointed. “They say he can tear apart an entire army with their own weapons with his Gift.”

“People tend to exaggerate in stories, my dear.” He had seen the bloodshed on the battlefield, where the fields around Graymalkin Castle were flooded in red and the bodies were piled so high they almost served as battlements. It was a sight that Raven, thankfully, did not have to see, although he wished he could have spared her the ordeal of witnessing the public executions. He entertained the thought of erasing the memories – it was risky, when they were etched into the core of her mind. Perhaps if he were older, and more adept in the use of his Gift – all wishful thinking at this point.

“He is very handsome,” Raven said wistfully, having already lost interest in the previous topic. At eleven, she tended to be flighty, and could rarely focus on a subject if there was nothing to catch her fancy.  

“I suppose he is,” Charles said, when it became clear that she expected some response. Raven gave him a deprecating look before she rolled her eyes.

“Do you always have to sound so _old_? _I_ think he is.” She absently twirled a strand of red hair around her forefinger. “I was so worried about you, but Hank tells me that you are well, and that I couldn’t see you before the wedding. He brought me your notes on Genoshan herbs.” Charles had wondered where those notes had gone to; he had assumed that the maid servants had accidentally discarded them.

“Who is Hank?”

“The physician’s apprentice.” She wrinkled her nose. “He is very clever, but much too shy.”

Charles smiled. “But you like him.”

Raven ducked her head down. She could be terribly easy to read – perhaps in time, she would learn to mask her emotions the same way she disguised herself with her Gift, but for now, Charles revelled in teasing her mercilessly.

“What about you?” she asked, “Do you like _him_ then?”

“Hmm? He sounds a rather nice boy.”

“I’m talking about his Majesty, silly.” Charles gave her a light tap on the side of her head for her impudence, although it was no more than a nudge, and only made her stick her tongue out in return.

“I don’t –” He did not know if he revered Erik, for removing his stepfather’s vile taint from Westchester, feared him, for the violence that ran in Erik’s blood, despised him, for soiling the lands of his home with the death of his people, or hated him for claiming what should have been Charles’ birthright. For now owning Charles himself.

He was saved the trouble of replying by the flare of that bright disciplined mind across his consciousness, followed by Erik’s distinctive scent of pine and metal as he strode into the room.

“Your Majesty.” Raven got down from his lap and swept Erik a curtsey, gracefully spreading her skirts as she sank down and rose again, with her eyes kept level with Erik’s, as expected for an alpha child of her status.

Charles got up and folded himself into a bow, casting his eyes downwards as he bent his head to expose his neck. He felt a sure hand against the small of his back, coupled with a firm touch against his stomach.

“No need for such ceremony,” Erik said, as he straightened Charles’ back. “Now that we are bonded.”

Charles tried to fight down to slow rise of heat to his cheeks as Erik’s hand moved to the bond bite – the touch was extremely intimate, an open flaunting of ownership, even if it was only before a family member, and a child at that.

There was a low gasp from Raven when Erik crooked his fingers and summoned Charles’ earrings from the chest at the end of the bed. Erik tucked his hair behind his ears – it was getting rather long, Charles thought absently – before hooking the earrings through his pierced lobes.

“Come, the council will be held in a quarter of an hour.” Raven recognised a dismissal when she heard one. She hesitated, half longing to sweep Charles into a hug before she left, but fearing that she may invite Erik’s displeasure if she did so. Charles bent down instead and grasped her tightly, pressing a quick kiss to her red curls, before pushing her gently towards the door.

“Perhaps your sister could join us for the evening meal,” Erik said as Raven went scampering down the corridors, already forgetting that their eyes were still on her once her back was turned.

Charles gave him a slight squeeze of gratitude when Erik moved to take his hand.

***

“How did your sister come to be a fosterling of your House?” Erik asked, as they walked down the hallways to the council room, hand in hand, like a newly wedded couple in the flush of love’s light.

“I found her in the kitchen in the middle of night, beaten and almost starved to death.” There was a thin veil over Erik’s thoughts that masked an underlying swirl of emotions, and it took Charles a conscious effort to refrain from probing further. Erik’s idle curiosity over Raven was only an attempt to strike up some form of conversation, although to what end, Charles did not know. He supposed he would find out eventually.

“It took some manoeuvring to get my mother to take her in –” It took quite a bit more than that, although his mother was already so far gone in her grief that a little mental manipulation did not harm her anymore than what she had wrought upon herself. “But my mother had always wanted a daughter.” That was untrue – his mother had always wanted a son, a strong alpha son. An alpha daughter had seemed the next best choice.

“Your stepfather had no objections?”

“He knew I loved her, and a fosterling posed no threat to his House’s claim over the throne.” Kurt’s claim over the throne had been a mockery of heritage laws from the very start – he had no claim, other than his hold over the Queen, now dead and cold in a desecrated tomb on the Tower Hill.

“But you did.” Erik’s hand tightened slightly over his as his lips parted to press further questions, but they were already at the doors to the council chambers.

Charles could feel the eyes of Erik’s inner circle upon him as Erik led him into the large room. He felt himself being weighed and assessed, even felt the light brush of an inquisitive mind over his – his head snapped instinctively towards the direction of the foreign mind to meet the cool gaze of the Lady Frost, resplendent in her white gown and sparkling diamonds.

There were a few other nobles – not Erik’s favoured, but too influential to be excluded from the formal council meetings. Charles could guess a few of their identities. Lords Wyngarde, Stryker, Leland, Essex - remnants of a rival faction, whose presence were tolerated out of necessity.

He found their minds a curiosity - it was not so much that their thoughts were shielded, but they seemed somehow elusive, as if he was viewing a dream sequence, instead of the solid thoughts of an alert mind.

Charles remembered Kurt reaching out to them for aid, penning page after page of frantic pleas for help. Kurt had probably offered them everything that he did not own in exchange for his life – Westchester, and everything that came with it. There had been no answers from them; Charles could almost picture it in his mind - the four of them, led by Stryker, showing Erik the proof of Westchester’s desolation, and of their own loyalty.

Erik guided him to a seat at his side at the head of the table. The slight shifts in the minds of those present was enough to tell him that it was unusual to have them taking to table as equals. Genosha was no different in Westchester in this respect then, where custom demanded that an omega’s seat should always be off to the side, and preferably to the west, to show the omega’s deference to his or her alpha’s ownership.

The council of eight appeared bemused – he skirted over Lady Frost’s mind; no matter how subtle he was, he doubted he could escape detection by another telepath – but the remaining nobles seemed outraged at the perceived affront.

There were betas on the council – Lady Munroe and Lord Munoz were such examples, but there was no omega, and definitely not one seen by some as nothing more than the spoils of war.

Charles tightened his grip over the handles of his chair and tried to keep his anger in check.

“Perhaps we should start with the most interesting topic,” Lord Azazel began. His gaze flicked over to Charles, and for a brief moment, Charles thought he caught a mischievous wink. “Our finances.”

“Have you called in the debts from the surrounding duchies?” Erik asked, although Charles could tell that the question was rhetorical.

“Hard times, my lord, when there are few able-bodied peasants available to farm the lands.” Azazel lifted an eyebrow at Erik’s expression. “Did you expect anything else?”

“Only a third of the male population were drafted,” Erik said, “And they know it very well. Have you told them that interest on taxes is compounded?”

“To no effect,” Azazel replied, his gaze travelling across to a few nobles seated at the end of the long table, “As some here can surely attest to.” There were a few who lowered their gaze at Azazel’s tacit accusation, Leland included, but Stryker and Essex merely sat back in their chairs, completely unperturbed.

“And Westchester’s coffers?”

“Empty.”

Charles could feel the eyes of everyone in the room upon him. _May I speak, my Lord?_ Erik’s mind was like a bright flame unfurling its warmth as he acquiesced silently. He matched the touch of his mind with a brush of his knuckles over Charles’, as if he wasn’t sure if Charles was able to hear his mind through their mental connection.

“My stepfather lived in excess, hired mercenaries to safeguard his position on the throne, and drained the last of Westchester’s wealth in defending it from Genosha’s armies. Add on the looting –” The sudden jolt of anger from Erik came as no surprise. Charles supposed the fruits of the looters’ efforts never made it back to Genosha’s treasury. “I doubt Westchester has much of value left.”

Stryker’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile. “It appears that you have claimed its most valuable asset then, my Lord,” he said, inclining his head towards Erik. His tone was respectful, almost deferential, but Charles did not miss the look of contempt as he swept his eyes over Charles’ body.

“I have never doubted that,” Erik replied smoothly, although his mind was rough with anger under its thin veneer of tight control. “Although I wonder why Charles’ claims of looting do not quite accord with the reports you bring me.”

“It must be Westchester’s own people, driven to desperation by Marko’s tyrannical rule,” Wyngarde answered. Charles felt his ire rising – the minds of those whom he had caught were all foreign; he knew the minds of his own people, of those who were born, bred, lived and died on Westchester soil.

He pressed against Wyngarde’s mind – _liar_ , he thought, as he searched for way in.

He was suddenly assaulted with a deluge of images, the council chambers spinning into a tornado of blood, war and destruction, dead children in Westchesterian peasant garb strewn across burnt fields like broken dolls, men torn apart with tornados, their screams ripped out from the lungs as their guts spilled out onto the ground.

Charles wrenched himself so violently out of the illusion that his own shields cracked. For a brief moment, he almost panicked at the thought of inadvertently baring his emotions for all present to see, but the damage was minimal, thankfully, and he managed to restore his shields before anyone noticed.

Wyngarde turned his head aside and threw up on the floor. It seemed that the backlash of his retaliation had rebounded upon his assailant, Charles thought with no small amount of satisfaction. His mind rippled like a wheat field in the summer breeze, as the dreamlike quality of his thoughts faded away, and the core of his mind was revealed to Charles’ Gift in vivid colour.

Charles barely choked down his gasp of shock at the intensity of the hatred he had for the man he called his Lord and King.

A sharp pain around his hand drew his attention down – Erik’s grip around his hand was so tight that his knuckles were white with tension. Charles drew in a sharp intake of breath and severed the remnants of the mental connection they shared. He had not even realised that they were still connected.

Wyngarde’s small black eyes glittered with hatred when he finally recovered enough to lift his head up.

 _Darling_ , Frost was not even looking at him when she addressed him with her mind. _You are delightfully powerful, but so painfully untrained that you are almost a fumbling child._ At least everyone else’s attention was on Wyngarde now, other than Frost, Erik and Wyngarde himself.

 _Impressive, regardless, although it was perhaps not the wisest move to show your hand so early_.

“Are you well, Jason?” Erik asked, his voice dripping with concern. “Perhaps you should excuse yourself to see the court physicians.” It hardly sounded like a suggestion, despite the intimate form of address and his earnest expression of sincerity.

Wyngarde immediately went pale, his gaze flicking in between Erik and Charles. His hands trembled with anger as he left the room - Charles would have touched his mind again, just to gauge the depth of his resentment, if he had been a little more confident of his control of his Gift.

He could feel the attention of a few more minds switching towards him as Wyngarde stumbled out – Howlett, Azazel and Essex had noticed that Wyngarde’s animosity did not have a sole target.

“Well, if we may proceed,” Erik said, after the doors had closed, as if the episode had been nothing but a minor annoyance, despite the servant still cleaning the vomit off the lush velvet carpet. “Perhaps a personal inspection of available resources is necessary in light of the material discrepancies which plague our accounts.”

“A progress, my Lord,” Frost suggested, “To assess the loyalty of those sworn to serve you.”

Erik rested his chin upon the back of his left hand, whilst the fingers of his right drummed upon the solid oak of the long table. Charles could feel the resonating hum of the metal ornaments around the council hall to the rhythm of Erik’s fingers. “Lord Essex and Lord Stryker, your seats are located in close proximity to Westchester’s borders,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve heard that Elderfield and Valorum are absolutely beautiful in the first blush of spring.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Stryker’s face was neutral, but his thoughts were a blizzard of barely controlled fury. “I shall depart post-haste to commence the preparations.”

Erik waved his offer aside. “I could hardly allow you to trouble yourself after your contributions to Genosha. Both of you shall ride with me, and we shall depart by the end of the week.”

“My Lord, it is only the end of winter, hardly suitable for travel,” Essex’s eyes flicked towards Charles, “And you are just married, surely your Consort cannot bear the thought of you leaving so soon.”

“Of course Charles shall come with me.” Erik took Charles’ hand. His look was fond as he gently rubbed his thumb over the ridge of Charles’ knuckles. “It would be remiss of me to leave him here.”

Essex and Stryker exchanged looks – Charles could tell they were refraining from engaging in much active thought, not without Wyngarde there to veil their minds with his illusions. Still, it was hard to completely keep a mind devoid of all thought and emotion, although he could tell that they had practice.

They did not know if Erik’s display of infatuation was genuine, or a farce to fool them into laxity.

Erik’s mind was awash with appreciation for Charles’ Gift – impressive, Erik was thinking, to have brought Wyngarde to his knees so easily. Even Emma could not accomplish such a feat. _Lady Frost_ , Charles thought to himself, looking across the table to where she sat, as regal as a Queen.

“The journey is not easy,” Stryker finally said, “The terrain is rough, and it is still snowing.”

“It is a hardship I will gladly bear,” Charles said. Anything, he thought, to see his home, or what remained of it, after being ravaged by Erik’s army.

“So it is settled then.” Erik clapped his hands together. “We shall begin our journey the day after tomorrow.” Stryker, the less accomplished of the two in controlling his emotions, was now almost livid with anger. Essex, however – Charles carefully probed at his mind; even without Wyngarde’s illusions, there was no shape to Essex’s thoughts, nothing material that Charles’ Gift could discern. Yet Essex was not Gifted – there was a distinct quality to the minds of the Gifted, or the accursed, as they were considered in some lands, which he did not sense in Essex.

“We should adjourn then.” Erik was already getting up from his seat. Charles rose with him, as Erik still held his hand in a firm grip. “There is much to prepare.”

 _A chat, perhaps, when it is convenient._ Frost’s eyes did not meet his as he walked past her. _Your Majesty_.

***

“I suppose Emma has begun pestering you.” Erik stopped their progress down the corridor and turned towards Charles. His fingers pulled at the collar of Charles’ doublet, flicking it up against the chill draft which gusted in through the arrow slits. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“I have never met anyone else with my Gift,” Charles answered. Erik was standing a little closer than decorum would have allowed in Westchester. Charles ducked his head down; perhaps he should have paid some attention to the books on omega etiquette his tutors had tried to make him read. “She could be as curious about me as I am about her.”

“No two Gifts are completely identical,” Erik said. “But you already know that.” Charles jerked his head up at the comment. Erik was smiling, but his eyes were filled with the knowing gleam of someone who harboured a million secrets.

“You have an incredibly strong Gift.” Erik grabbed Charles’ jaw and tilted his head up. The servants bowed their heads as they hurried past; their minds were all fanciful thoughts of courtship and romance. He could see the images fleeting through their minds, of Erik bending down, his large hands shielding their faces from the eyes of the prying servants.

“Even Lady Frost has not been able to destroy Lord Wyngarde’s illusions, and she is the strongest mind reader we have had so far.” Erik continued thoughtfully. Charles refrained from moving, although he was aching to turn his head away from Erik’s piercing gaze. “But you probably know that already, having seen that in my mind.”

Charles dropped his gaze to the floor once Erik released his jaw. “You do not want me to speak to Lady Frost,” he said, as they resumed their walk down the hallway.

Erik hesitated a moment before replying. “Is it your Gift that tells you so?” he asked. They paused at the castle entrance as the servants brought them their cloaks. Erik waved away the servants once they have draped Charles’ cloak over his shoulders, moving in to fasten the clasp himself. His fingers brushed against Charles’ neck, and he must have felt Charles’ pulsing racing under his skin.

“I – can sense it,” Charles said, trying to put the changes in his mind and body into words. “My awareness of your emotions has been heightened since we have –” He flushed.

“I never intended to stop you from speaking to her,” Erik took his hand and led him out into the castle courtyard. “By all means – she can probably tell you a few things about your Gift, given her experience.”

“Your mind does not say so,” Charles retorted, before he could stop himself.

Erik stopped in his tracks. “And what can you tell with your Gift?”

“That you are displeased with the idea.”

Erik’s brow relaxed slightly. “But you cannot tell why,” he said, as he continued their walk through the courtyard. Charles recognised the direction he was taking – Moira had taken him down this very path, to the hidden chapel in the silent copse, to say his prayers before his wedding.

“You do not wish me to know why.” Charles said, skirting around the implicit question. He probably could find out the reason, but not without Erik knowing that he had looked. “Your mind guards the thought rather fiercely.”

“Mind-reading is not such a rare skill, although most mind readers are weakly Gifted at best,” Erik replied. “At court, it is necessary to have a degree of defence against such intrusions.” He stopped at the small waiting chamber off the side of the chapel and undid the clasp of Charles’ cloak.

“You are more skilled at it than even Lord Wyngarde, and his Gift relates to the mind,” Charles said.

Erik laughed at that. “Circumstances,” he said cryptically, but his mind was aglow with faint pleasure at the compliment as he nudged Charles into the waiting chamber. “Change, and come to me in the main chamber.”

Charles picked up the silk robe laid out upon low table. Like his doublet and his breeches, it no longer was the blue and white of his own House, but was replaced instead trademark Lensherr crimson and gold. He undid the buttons of his doublet and tossed it aside, followed by his undershirt, and lastly his hose. The flowing omega robe was heavier than the well-fitted doublet he wore to the council chambers, but it was a familiar weight, for he had not been allowed any other form of clothing since his mother remarried.

He fumbled with the laces, finally deciding to simply tie them into clumsy knots to hold the garment together over his shoulders. The rich gold embroidery gleamed under sunlight that filtered in through the tinted glass panes.

Erik was kneeling before the altar of the main chamber when Charles entered, but he looked up and held out his hand as Charles made his way towards him. The soles of his bare feet crushed the fresh honeysuckle and jasmine strewn across the chapel floor, releasing their sweet fragrance into the air.

Erik touched the bonding mark on his neck gently as Charles sank to his knees next to him. “How could the gods fail to love you?” he asked softly, even as his fingers moved deftly to redo the laces at Charles’ shoulders in the traditional Genoshan knots.

Erik’s mouth moved in quick prayer – sacred offerings in an ancient language known to very few of the living. His mind pressed the meaning of the words into Charles’ memory; safety and wealth for Genosha, longevity for his line, retribution upon those who have wronged his people, and gratitude for all that he has been already given.

“You look well in red,” Erik said finally. “If my Lady Mother was still here to see you –” He laid a hand on Charles’ cheek briefly.

“As a Lensherr, you mean.” Charles said, his voice almost catching in his throat.

Erik exhaled softly. “As the last of the Xavier line, and the future of both our Houses.” He caught Charles’ left hand and twisted the ring around Charles’ ring finger.

“It is your destiny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the subscriptions, kudos, comments and bookmarks! Special thanks to deardeer for the Chinese translation!
> 
> Updates will probably be on Saturdays from now on.


	5. Five (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second half is more on Genosha's politics and Erik (through Charles' eyes), which takes a little more time. Because. ERIK.

It was snowing when they emerged from the chapel; the white fractals swirled around their feet with the small gusts of wind that blew in from the north. Erik removed his own cloak and wrapped it around Charles’ shoulders. “It is better to wear your current robe,” he said, “For the winds are stronger near the river.”

The weight of the robe and the two cloaks he wore hung heavily across his shoulders; the hem of Erik’s longer cloak dragged across the fresh snow, leaving dark furrows in the white landscape as they gradually made their way down to the riverbank. Erik must be cold, Charles thought, rubbing his thumb across the hand that gripped his right to find the pebbled evidence of goose bumps.

Charles caught the snowflakes falling from the sky with his free hand – the delicate crystals melted instantly at his touch.

“Have you never travelled out of Westchester before?” Erik asked.

Charles shook his head.

“I asked because the snow seemed to be a novelty to you – do you like it?” There was a hint of frustration in Erik’s voice.

Charles knew Erik found his reticence exasperating, and Erik was not patient enough to rein in his annoyance, which was as heavy and stifling as the awkward silence that stretched out between them when Charles failed to reply immediately.

“It is very beautiful,” Charles said finally. “Although not as beautiful as what the books make it out to be.”

“What your mind imagined it to be, perhaps,” Erik replied, “People tend to glorify what they do not know.”

“Do you? Glorify what you do not know?” Charles asked. His skin was cold and wet from the snow. “Expectations are rarely met, after all.” Charles no longer knew what disappointment tasted like – the feeling was always foreign, experienced second-hand through his Gift. He almost thought he could feel it in Erik’s mind, underneath the layers of frustration.

 _What do you want from me?_ Charles thought, although he knew better than to ask. Spread his legs, bear Erik’s children – that was what was expected of him, and already, in less than two days, Erik had already almost managed to make him dare to dream.

Charles had not dared hope for eight years; he learned early that without hope, there was no fear of disappointment.

“I prefer to judge by what I do know,” Erik said. “Fantasy can be a dangerous thing. Illusions, as well, although you may not need to fear them.”

“You are referring to Lord Wyngarde’s Gift, I presume,” Charles said.

“A variant of your mind reading Gift.” Erik did not comment further, but Charles could read his thoughts easily enough. He knew Erik wanted him to see them, for a mind as disciplined as Erik’s would not betray its thoughts so casually, not unless it wanted them to be heard.

Erik loved his Gift – the idea of it, the _possibilities_ of it.

Charles stared out at the river, which was frozen over and sparkling under the rays of the late winter sun. “I will not know what you want,” he said quietly, “If you do not ask.”

Erik was silent for a moment. His thoughts retreated into the deeper recesses of his mind, once more carefully shielded under his surface emotions, which were now almost contemplative despite his earlier display of frustration. “I would think that speech would have been unnecessary.”

“It is not – not when it is normally expected of me.” Charles felt Erik’s hand tightened slightly over his. “Gifts can be dangerous, particularly those relating to the mind.” He did not say that they were forbidden in Westchester’s citadel; it was common knowledge. Only fear of a rebellion had stayed Kurt from exiling the Gifted residing in Westchester.

“So you sought to cripple yourself.”

“Control, my Lord.” Charles tried not to think of the mutilated arms of the screaming servant, blood spilling out onto the floor until Kurt finally decided that he had learned enough of a lesson to have the servant’s wounds cauterised.

Anger, fear, desperation, _desire_ , his mind added traitorously – that was what made his Gift dangerous.  

“You are so adept in it, you almost believe in your own lies.” Erik pressed the back of his hand to Charles’ cheek. “No more hiding.” The initial chill of Erik’s hand was soon replaced by the warmth generated by the contact. “Now, tell me what you saw.”

Charles took a deep breath – it was clear enough that Erik knew he had lied. “You admire my Gift – you believe that I have not yet explored its potential.”

Erik’s laughter was unrestrained, pleasure bubbling forth from his mind like the waters of a spring brook. “Do you know the beliefs of the ancient religion?” he asked. “Of what needs to be done to achieve your full potential?”

Charles’ confusion seemed to amuse him further. “You will know it soon enough,” he said. “Come, you must be very anxious to see your sister again.”

***

Erik remained in good spirits throughout the meal – he was delighted by Raven’s displays of her Gift, and his sister, already awestruck by the stories of Genosha’s monarch, instantly fell captive to Erik’s easy charm. Raven had not experienced much affection in her childhood, and the lavish praise from a monarch she already idolised was enough to make her skin darken to a deep midnight blue in embarrassment and pleasure.

Charles did not know why Erik was so attentive to the whims of an eleven-year-old child.

“Are you going away?” Raven suddenly asked. There was a hint of panic to her voice.

Charles turned his attention back to the conversation. He had allowed himself to get caught up in his own thoughts.

“We are,” Erik said, “And so are you.” Raven’s eyes lit up as she let out a squeal of delight at the news.

“Where are we going to?” she asked.

“The land of your birth.” Charles knew the words were meant for him, although Erik still seemed intent on Raven.

He quietly took another sip of rich wine. The meaning of the words was not lost to him – Westchester should no longer mean anything to him, other than the sentimentality of it being where he was born.

It did not stop him yearning for it.

***

After dinner, Erik guided him to their wedding suite - Erik’s own suite, Charles now realised, and pressed him down into a chair by the fire. Erik stretched out languidly in the chair across him and kicked off his leather shoes, toed them to the side so that they were arranged neatly by the chair.

Charles was tempted to kick off his soft velvet slippers and curl his toes by the warmth of the fire. Erik’s lips curved up into a smile as he caught Charles looking at his own bare feet. “By all means,” he said, gesturing to Charles’ slippers.

“When did you manifest your Gift?” he asked.

“When I was nine.” Charles shifted in his chair – now that his feet were warm, he wanted nothing more than to bring them up and curl himself up in the rich silks of his robe. “I thought I was going mad,” he said, when it was obvious that Erik wanted to hear more. “Until I realised that the migraine I had was really my mother’s.”

He had not known enough to hide it, back then. He looked down at his bare feet – if his mother had not recovered that one moment of lucidity and thrown herself before Kurt’s fists – Charles refused to continue that train of thought.

“You must have manifested your initial awareness of your Gift earlier, but wielded it later,” Charles said.

“I can’t remember when I first became aware of the earth’s forces and metal, but you are right – I managed to influence it only after I turned fourteen. How did you guess?” Erik’s eyes were alit with curiosity, their strange grey-green hue sparkling with gold flecks from the fire’s light.

“Our minds are different from the non-Gifted – your innate shields are strong enough that you must have realised your Gift at a very young age, but there are certain weaknesses in it that speak of a later development after the first –“ Charles paused as he tried to search for a word.

“We call it the Awakening,” Erik said. He reached towards the table in between them and poured two chalices of wine from the pitcher. “In Genosha,” he continued, bringing a chalice to his mouth, “And a few other countries.”

“The inevitable, for those born with it,” Charles said. A curse, his stepfather had called it.

“A Gift,” Erik said sternly, “That runs deeper than our blood, our bones, something that defines the very core of our existence.”

Charles’ hand, already reaching out for the second chalice, paused in mid-air.

“Are those words familiar to you?” Erik asked, seemingly unaware of Charles’ sudden unease. “They should be, for they are written in your hand.”

“Fanciful theories, my Lord, not meant to be seen and locked away –” Charles stopped.

“In a metal-bound box under your bed,” Erik finished, his eyes gleaming under the firelight. He caught Charles’ hand, pulling him across the short distance between them onto his lap. “I find it fascinating,” he said, his breath tickling the nape of Charles’ neck. “Most of us think that our Gift runs in our blood.”

“In our skin, our flesh, our blood, in our entire being,” Charles said, staying carefully still when Erik undid his laces and kissed the naked skin on his shoulders. “It only dies with us.”

“And how did you test that theory of yours?”

“When a Gifted bleeds, his or her Gift does not diminish when the blood leaves the body.” Erik’s mouth was warm and wet against his neck. “When you cut off a limb, it makes their Gift no lesser.” Charles tilted his head back when Erik brought the chalice to his mouth. The wine was bitter-sweet, warming his body as it trickled down his throat.

“When you take away their lives, their Gifts wink out of existence like dying stars.” Erik lifted the hem of his robe and slipped his hand under to fondle the soft flesh of Charles’ cock.

“How do you know that?”

“My Gift –” Charles turned his head into Erik’s chest to muffle his gasps as his cock slowly hardened under Erik’s hand.

“Let it go.” Erik quickened the pace of his hand. His teeth caught the bonding gland, tugging and pulling until the flesh was swollen and hurting.

“I can’t.” Charles tried to catch the whine in his throat as the pain slowly transformed into pleasure. “It will soil –”

“I want you to release yourself,” Erik said, his hand now a tight vice around Charles’ cock.

With a soft cry, Charles spilled over Erik’s hand and onto his robes. The silks would be ruined, he thought, world spinning around him as Erik lifted him up and carried him towards the bed. He heard a clink as Erik undid his own belt, and felt the mattress sag slightly when Erik lifted the bedding and slid in beside him.

He felt the slow onset of panic when Erik moved onto him and parted his legs. He wasn’t ready, he thought, still dry and tight, all too likely to tear and bleed. His hole burned at the intrusion of Erik’s finger.

Charles caught Erik’s hand before he could stop himself. “You will get no pleasure from this.”

Erik’s expression was unreadable, but Charles heard the creak of a drawer opening and closing, the pop of a cork being released, and when Erik’s finger returned, it was slick with oil.

“I’m sorry –” Charles’ cheeks burned with mortification.

“Whatever for?” Erik sounded perplexed.

 _For not getting myself ready_ , Charles wanted to say, but all that came out was a whine as Erik dragged his finger across his prostate.

“I take a lot of pleasure from you.” Another finger slipped in beside the first – Charles clenched around it instinctively before forcing himself to relax, and to relax further when Erik added a third finger.

It still burned when Erik lined himself up and pushed in, so soon after the first taking, when his hole was still red and slightly swollen from being used. Charles could feel himself fluttering and pulsing around Erik’s cock, his body refusing the penetration instinctively, even though it should have been made for it. He took a deep breath and forced himself to unclench, keeping his eyes trained on Erik until Erik was finally buried up to the hilt.

He knew what to expect, now that Erik was in him – the strong thrusts that slowly increased in pace, the build of pleasure as Erik slammed against his prostate, the warm strength of Erik’s body around him, and finally the knot which locked them together as Erik filled Charles up with his seed. Charles felt a damp wetness against his own stomach at the first splash of heat against his insides – evidence of his pleasure, although he was so delirious from the knotting he felt as if the pleasure was no longer his own.

He must have fallen asleep, for when he opened his eyes the fires had died out and left the room in utter darkness. Erik was still in him – and hard again, he realised, for his body was once again succumbing to the pleasurable pain of being stretched and used.

“Erik.” Erik was awake – he began thrusting gently at the sound of Charles’ voice. The knot began to swell once more, pushing against his hole until Charles felt he was close to bursting. He felt the slow burn of pleasure in his own belly, although he was now so spent he could not seek another release.

“Erik,” Charles said again, trying to convey his need as he once again felt the hot splatter of come against his insides. It was too much – he almost felt like his belly was swelling with it.

Erik pressed a hand against his stomach and slowly kneaded the flesh there. It helped; the warmth was comforting enough that Charles felt his consciousness slowly slipping away.

“Sleep,” Erik murmured softly.

And Charles did.


	6. Five (Part 2)

“Come with me to my study,” Erik said, when he returned from his morning drill, flushed in the face from his exertions and fresh from the bath he had taken after. Without waiting for an answer, he took Charles’ hand and pulled him from his chair. There was no urgency to Erik’s movements – he hadn’t waited for an answer, because he simply assumed that Charles would not object.

He wasn’t wrong.

Erik’s study was glorious, with the bright sunlight of the late winter morning flooding in from the high windows, and books lining shelves which were twice Charles’ height. More books, maps and parchment littered every free surface available. The scent of ink, old parchment and well-loved books filled the air.

Charles ran a finger along the spine of the nearest tome on the large mahogany table in the centre of the room – war strategies – the spine was soft despite the beautiful craftsmanship that went into binding the book, proof of its use and age.

Erik pulled him away from the table to his writing desk and made him sit in the chair opposite him. Charles breath caught for a moment when his eyes fell upon the parchments spread across the desk - accounts of Westchester’s finances, tallies of every remaining horse, soldier and weapon, the coin left in its treasury.

He dared not touch them, but he could not turn his eyes away.

“They are meant for your eyes,” Erik said, flipping the accounts around. “Tell me what you think of those numbers.”

Charles pressed a hand to the edges of the parchment and considered the figures in front of him. He felt strangely cold, although the fire in the study was roaring. The thought of his father’s Westchester, rich, warm, almost entitled to extravagance in its prosperity, now reduced to nothing but waste, rubble and figures on parchment made him ache.

Kurt’s army had been mostly mercenaries and men sent by the lords whose loyalty he had bought. Mercenaries did not remain loyal once it was clear there was no fortune to be had, and lords whose men were in effect paid for tended to stray far away from the actual battle.

Charles did a quick comparison between the total numbers of dead and those who had surrendered, and his estimations of the military strength of the nobles who supported his stepfather’s reign. There were discrepancies, perhaps a thousand-men strong – he took the freshly-dipped quill Erik passed to him and made a slight notation at the bottom of the page. Red ink, he noted idly. Erik’s colour.

Weapons – again, the figures did not tally. Looting, perhaps, the dead were easy enough scavenge from. The treasury – Charles paused. His father had loved economics – like Kurt, he enjoyed the sight of coin; unlike Kurt, he was even fonder of earning it than spending it, although his father had his vices when it came to luxuries. King Brian of House Xavier had worked to cultivate the same love in his son – no age was too young when it came to the affairs of the Crown Treasury.

Charles sighed. Kurt’s adherents had probably taken whatever measly amount remained. Erik picked up the accounts and idly flipped through Charles’ notations once Charles had set aside the quill – Charles watched intently as Erik’s eyes travelled across the pages, barely skimming Charles’ calculations and going right to the end figures.

Charles gripped the arms of his chair tightly. It had been a test.

“Why ask me when you already know that the figures are inaccurate?” he asked.

“It is never unwise to seek a second opinion,” Erik replied distractedly.

“I am sure you have had at least ten others from your advisors,” Charles said, not quite managing to keep the heat out of his voice. What would Erik have done if Charles had tried to lie?

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Are you angry?”

Charles kept silent. He had no right to anger.

“Come here.” Erik said, holding out his hand. His hand was gentle around Charles’ wrist as he pulled him towards him in a swift jerk, so that Charles tumbled easily into his lap.

“I have never seen you angry.” Erik tilted his face up and studied him carefully, as if he was examining a rare tribute from one of his dominions.

“I am not, my Lord.”

“Really.” Erik narrowed his eyes. “Your cheeks are flushed. Surely it cannot be the heat from the fire.”

“You have already decided that I am angry, so I am,” Charles said curtly. He was conscious of Erik’s fingers carelessly unbuttoning the first few buttons of his doublet, followed by the same few buttons of his undershirt. “I don’t suppose there is anything I can say to persuade you otherwise.”

“Oh, but I am already persuaded,” Erik replied, although the tone of his voice made it rather clear that he was not. “You must be warm then.” Charles could not help slightly shuddering when Erik lightly pinched the sensitive flesh of his right nipple. It was chilly despite the roaring fire in the grate, and he could already feel his skin pebbling under the cold air.

“Are you not?” Erik asked as he rubbed Charles’ nipple in between his fingers, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to cause the flesh to heat slightly from the flow of blood.

“I am,” Charles said, although it was an effort to keep from leaning into the warmth of Erik’s chest.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in.” Charles tried to pull himself away, but Erik snatched his wrist and tightened his grip around it warningly. At least he allowed Charles to turn his face away and press his naked chest against the soft velvet of his doublet.

“Your Majesty.” It was the unctuous voice of the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Fitzroy. “Perhaps the Lord Consort would want to see the arrangements for the royal progress.”

“He will,” Erik answered easily. Charles did not lift his face until he heard the soft thud of the door closing, and when it did, he jumped up from Erik’s lap despite the burning grip around his wrist. Erik gestured towards his loose shirt and hanging doublet.

“Come back here, and I will do them up for you.” His hold around Charles’ wrist remained unforgiving as Charles slowly sat back down onto his lap.

“Are you still angry?” he asked, as he did up the buttons of Charles’ undershirt. His touch against Charles’ swollen nipple could only be on purpose.

“Yes,” Charles said sulkily. “Are you satisfied now?”

“You can be very trying at times,” Erik said simply, as if Charles was an insolent child who knew no better.” He got up, tumbling Charles off his lap as he did so and catching Charles easily by the waist. “I feel that I don’t understand you at all.”

Charles rubbed his reddened wrist sullenly before Erik pulled him out of the study.

***

“My Lady Mother used to supervise the planning of all the royal progresses,” Erik said, “She took great delight in it.” He was silent for a moment, and for the first time, Charles sensed a deep, aching sorrow in Erik’s mind. The emotion vanished as quickly as it surfaced, and when Erik spoke, it was with a light briskness, which Charles thought was an attempt to hide the momentary flash of weakness.

“I suppose it is now your domain.” The guard at the door pushed open the door to the chamber next to Erik’s bedchamber. “If you wish it to be.”

The Lord Chamberlain was busy instructing the seamstresses and tailors gathered around him as they entered, but he quickly turned around and folded his waist in a bow as the women around him bent their knees in deep curtsies.

“What would you have me do?” Charles asked, staring at the bales of cloth, snipping of trimmings and samples of delicate embroidery spread out on the table before them.

“Has your mother never instructed you on this?” Erik barely took a glance at the display. “Whatever displays are required, how to dress to the best effect, what alms should be given to the peasants – it would be the responsibility of the highest-ranked omegas in the court.”

“My mother was frequently – indisposed.” Charles was aware of the watchful ears of the Lord Chamberlain, even though the man had his head bowed obsequiously low. His stepfather’s favoured mistress usually assumed the role of managing his affairs, from the planning of pageants, visitations to the celebrations within the citadel. His mother remained a silent shadow through it all, watching as her lady omega-in waiting stroll down the streets of Westchester and feasted at the right of his stepfather as if she was the true Queen, whilst his mother was the imposter.

“Do as you like,” Erik said. “You are certainly observant enough.” He appeared uninterested in the choice of fabrics and patterns, and very briefly, Charles was reminded of his birth father, who never cared how he was dressed, and relied almost entirely on his mother to manage the royal wardrobe. His mother had been the perfect Queen for his father, exceptionally beautiful and always seen at his side, always conscientious, forever graceful.

“This one,” Charles said finally, picking out a red fabric that was so dark in colour it was almost black. The memories were faded, but he still recalled his mother’s elegant taste, the subdued whites and royal blues that symbolised the peace of his father’s rule. Red, he thought, for the heat of the battle and the blood that characterised their first meeting, and gold thread for the delicate embroidery on the chemise, to symbolise the wealth of that lands that Genosha had taken. He went about his task with a vengeance – dark green, because it was the colour closest to his own royal blue. He paused at the soft grey velvet, before nodding at the tailors to add it to the list.

“You do have quite a temper,” Erik said softly behind him as he waved away the Lord Chamberlain and all the attendants, once the Lord Chamberlain had announced that there were sufficient choices of clothing for the progress. “And you are not as adept as concealing it as you might think.” He pinched the flesh of Charles’ cheek lightly. “Spare some humour; I do not want our children to be ill-tempered.”

Charles turned his face away, and refrained from reminding Erik that the belief that an ill-tempered omega would bear irritable children only applied if the omega was pregnant.

***

Charles’ resentment gradually faded as the afternoon passed, and he was calm enough when Erik brought him down to the royal stables to choose the horse that he will ride during the progress.

“Do you see any that you like?” Erik asked, as the stable master led several geldings out of their stalls for their inspection.

Charles shook his head. He could not use his Gift to read and control the mind of an animal, given how different they were from that of a man’s, but he trusted it to let him know if a steed was compatible or not. He had felt no connection to the horses which have been paraded before him.

“This is not because you are still upset,” Erik said. “I would know it if you are upset.” He took Charles’ hand and nodded towards a fine brown horse. “Have that one, he has a gentle temperament.”

“Yes,” Charles said, although the horse did not strike a chord in him. “He is a good choice.” Unexpectedly, Erik waved the stable boy away. “Are there any others?” he asked, before turning his attention back to Charles.

“I can tell you do not like it.” Erik sighed, sounding both exasperated and almost fond at once. “It is no trouble to pick the right horse.”

“This is the only gelding we have left which is of the right height, Your Majesty,” the stable master said. “I thought he was rather – unsuitable.” Charles could tell why the stable master was reluctant. The young gelding was resisting the force of the stable boy’s pull at his reins, tossing his mane and digging his hooves vigorously into the hard cold earth.

A spirited animal, Charles thought, his heart softening at the sight of the gelding’s reluctance to emerge from its stall. A beautiful one too - its white coat gleamed under the afternoon sun when the stable boy finally got it to stand before Charles.

“Perhaps the brown gelding would be best choice, then.” Erik turned towards Charles. “We can perhaps find a more suitable one later.”

“This one,” Charles said, pointing towards the white gelding. “What is its name?” he asked the stable master.

“Sunfire, your Majesty.” The stable master hesitated. “A fine specimen, but far from disciplined –” His words petered off when Charles laid a careful hand on the horse’s neck. The gelding, previously close to rearing under the tight control of the stable boy, bowed its head as Charles ran his fingers through its sleek mane.

“This one,” he insisted.

“It may not be entirely safe, your Majesty,” the stable master cautioned. He worried that the blame would fall upon him if Charles met with a riding accident, all too likely, given the gelding’s temperament.

“Saddle him up,” Erik said. Charles kept his hand on the horse’s neck as the stable boy approached them carefully.

 _Easy_ , Charles thought, when the horse threatened to buck at the weight of the saddle upon its back. _Sunfire_ – there was a vague sense of familiarity and recognition at the name. _Easy_. Charles accepted a lump of sugar from the stable master and held it out for the horse. Its damp muzzle bumped against his palm as it nuzzled against his skin, chasing the last vestiges of the sugar.

Despite the horse’s display of affection, the stable master was pale with worry when Charles took hold of the reins. He felt a snag against his signet ring, and the slight tightening of the chain holding his father’s locket around his neck as he mounted up. When he turned towards Erik, he found him deep in a hushed conversation with the stable master. Charles touched a hand to the locket on his neck. It must have been his imagination.

Charles kept his Gift focused on Sunfire as he guided the horse into a quick trot around the stable yard. “I want this one,” he said again, when Erik came up towards him.

“He has never been so docile, your Majesty,” the stable master told Erik. Charles felt the familiar curl of anger in his belly at the almost unconscious dismissal of his opinion. “Perhaps the Lord Consort is able to handle this one.”

The horse whinnied when Charles jumped down and went over to Erik’s side. “He is the right one,” he said, curling his hand around Erik’s wrist.

“Charles does have unique talents,” Erik said. “He will have this one. You will have to prepare him for the progress.” When the stable master and the stable boy have retreated, along with Sunfire – Charles had to soothe the animal’s mind before it consented to being led back to the stables – Erik turned around to face him.

“Promise me you will not ride without me,” he said. “Just for the first few days, until we are absolutely sure that the horse is disciplined enough.”

Charles leaned into him as Erik’s arm came around his waist. The heat was comfortable, and he was content enough for that brief moment to allow himself to forget his own bitterness.

“I promise.”


	7. Six (Part 1)

“Tell me about Westchester.” Charles was sitting by the fireside, watching the bright golden flames dance in the hearth. Erik was in his customary seat opposite him, idly flipping through the sheaf of papers marked by Charles in the afternoon. “The dukes, the earls, all the timeservers who turned against your House’s rule to side with your stepfather, those who have now so readily sworn their loyalty to me.”

“It is yours now,” Charles said dully, resolutely refusing to look at Erik. “They are all yours.” Those who were not were probably rotting outside the gates of the citadel.

“Must you always be so petulant whenever I mention Westchester?” Erik’s mind was carefully shielded, but he did not bother hiding the exasperation in his voice. He leaned forward and took Charles’ hands, rubbing the rough pads of his fingers over Charles’ skin as if it would placate him. “Have you so little confidence in me that you think it would not fare better under me than under the usurper’s rule?”

“Oh,” Charles said, thinking of the fields drenched in the blood of Westchesterians. “You misunderstand. I am only speaking the truth. The turncoats, the traitors, the opportunists – they are all yours, if you want them.”

Erik looked at him for a long moment, and finally released his hands. Charles tucked them into the long folds of his sleeves. “That does not answer my question.” He was quiet for a long while, before saying quietly, “They say that the people do not dare venture out of the homes after curfew, for fear of risking the usurper’s wrath; his word is law, and the judges are his mouthpieces. There is no celebration of the seasons, for every penny has been sent to the royal treasury. Am I wrong?”

Charles twisted the silks of his robes in his hands. “You are not.”

“And no one was courageous enough to stand forward to restore the throne to its rightful ruler, despite the misery the usurper’s rule has wrought.” Erik’s voice was soft, and the greyish-green hue of his eyes was almost enthralling under the flicker of the dying embers, but the ridicule in his words was clear enough. “Am I wrong in saying that?”

Charles bit his lip. “No, you are not.” His mother’s soul had died with his father, and he had been all of eight, and an omega. Able to inherit by law, but it would have been unprecedented. It had not mattered to his father, who had said that no alpha son would have made him prouder.

His father must have been the only person who saw Charles as able to inherit, for no one had deemed him worthy enough to rise for him. His stepfather had made sure to point that out to him repeatedly.

“Then answer me – do you really think that Westchester would be worse off under my rule?” Charles studied the sharp lines of Erik’s cheek bones, the proud arch of his brows, and the thinness of his lips, just shy of being harsh.

He turned his face away. “Westchester should be grateful.” The last of the flames flickered out as the final embers burned away into ashes. “I am very grateful,” he added quietly. “So very grateful.”

“Is that so,” Erik said. “Then I am glad.”

Charles did not resist when Erik reached out to pull him up from his chair.

***

“Are you excited?” Raven asked, and Charles can see her poorly contained eagerness in the way her legs swung from where she sat, and how she fisted her hands in her riding dress, unable to remain still for more than a few brief moments.  

“Hank, Hank,” she called, jumping off her seat and rushing towards the awkward young apprentice. Hank, the poor boy, already three years past puberty, socially awkward, and having experienced a growth spurt which would turn most alphas green with jealousy, was obviously at a loss as to how to deal with Raven’s childish exuberance.

“He is coming with us,” Raven said, “His master says he would have no one else but Hank to assist him.”

Hank flushed a bright red, and began spluttering. “No, no,” he said. “She exaggerates, your Majesty. There are very few of us apprentices in the first place.”

“Few with any talent, you mean,” Raven retorted. “He is too modest. Master Ambrose has only praise for him.”

“You have to forgive my sister,” Charles said, ignoring Raven’s indignant squawk. “Most people find her enthusiasm rather overwhelming.”

“No, no,” Hank stammered, looking down at his feet. “She has been very good company.” Raven puffed up visibly at that, and stuck her tongue out at Charles.

“Thank you, Hank.” Charles smiled fondly at him. “For bearing with her.” Even though only a year separated them, Hank seemed to take on the role of Raven’s playmate and companion with much more ease than Charles ever had.

“Can you stop acting as if you’re thirty?” Raven strode over and elbowed him lightly in the waist, before flinging her arms around him. “Hank says they’re going to present you to Genosha’s citizens, and to the people of the dominions as well. It’s going to be very grand.” She rested her head against his chest. “I am so happy for you,” she said softly, although Charles knew Hank had heard her, with his inhumanly keen hearing. “His Majesty has treated you well,” she added, unconsciously seeking reassurance.

“Yes.” Charles absently tucked the stray strands of her hair behind her ears. “Yes, he has.”

***

He was dressed in heavy silk robes, almost as ostentatious as his royal blue and white wedding garment, except the silks were now dyed in the dark red of his husband’s House, and embroidered in gold with the shield and sword of his husband’s crest. Moira brushed his hair until it shone, and threaded hair ornaments crafted in silver and gold - delicate leaves across curling vines and branches – through the intricate braids that she weaved.

Erik and he were to walk – on foot – as a sign of love and respect to Genosha’s people, down the main street of Genosha’s citadel. Twenty thousand steps in total, to gather the blessings from Genosha’s citizens, and to give theirs in return.

His eyelids were carefully brushed with gold dust and lined with kohl. “Keep your eyes closed,” Moira instructed, brushing his eyelashes lightly with charcoal as Charles complied. “Careful,” she said, as flecks of charcoal fell down his cheeks when Charles opened his eyes. “Let it rest for a while,” she added, as she carefully wiped away the smudges.

“You were supposed to wear bracelets, and a diamond-crusted belt,” Moira said, as she wound a elaborately embroidered black silk belt around his waist instead. “But his Majesty insists that you wear this instead.” Charles traced the dark royal blue thread across his belt, the familiar branches of his motif, and the lapis lazuli painstakingly embedded at the end of each branch.

“As befitting his status,” Erik said from behind them. His mind was approving in his warmth as he took Charles by his hands and turned him around. “Leave us,” he told Moira, who swept a deep curtsy and silently retreated from the room.

“I want them to see that I have taken the heir to the Xavier line as my Consort.” His fingers stretched Charles’ earlobes gently as he hooked the sapphire-crusted trees of wisdom in his ears. “Westchester’s legacy,” he said softly, as he lifted the chain around Charles’ neck, and pulled Charles’ father’s locket out from under his robe.

Charles fisted his hands under the sleeves of his blood-red robes.

“You are too pale,” Erik noted. Of course, Charles had to look perfect before Genosha’s citizens - the ideal image of a healthy omega, flushed with ripeness and ready to bear his King his heir.

“Are you cold?” Erik brushed his lips lightly against Charles’ cheeks, careful so as not to ruin Moira’s meticulous work. He rubbed his fingers gently against the exposed flesh of Charles’ neck, pressing a little harder against his nape so that Charles’ tilted his head up. The warm lips against his own should not have been a surprise, and yet it was – Erik rarely kissed him on the mouth; Charles had come to associate Erik’s kisses with the blood of their betrothal, their wedding vows and the consummations of their marriage.

“Better,” Erik observed when they finally parted. Charles felt his cheeks heating from the lingering memory of Erik’s mouth against his.

“Do smile,” Erik said as he led Charles down the long corridors of the palace. “I want to see you happy.”  He was smiling when he bent down to kiss the top of Charles’ head. “Genosha wants to see you happy.”

***

The weight of Genosha’s expectations weighed heavily on his Gift when they finally stepped out onto the main street of the citadel. The air itself was thick with anticipation, causing his stomach to roil, not from fear, but the overwhelming feeling of the minds of thousands of people battering against his own.

Charles could feel the pebbles and cobblestones under his feet, which were wrapped in nothing but woollen cloth. It was to be part of his offering – if he had been a summer groom, he would have had to walk the twenty thousand steps barefooted, like the lowliest peasant. By the end of his journey, he was expected to have sweated and bled into the ancient stones of the citadel.

“The blood of my line has been splashed against the foundation stones of the city,” Erik had told him, and now Charles was to give his own.

Despite the underlying magnitude of the ceremony, the city itself was a riot of colours against the grey backdrop of the overcast skies of late winter. All the people have come out to see the royal offering, and every guild has taken the chance to dress themselves up in their finest costumes and display gorgeously embroidered banners and magnificent displays of their work, be it metal or glass ware, fabrics or jewellery.

Their eyes were all on their King and his strange foreign consort from a royal line which no longer existed. Their curiosity was as heavy as the robe upon his shoulders, their stares open and frank as they gazed and exclaimed upon him, the slightness of his stature, the embroidery upon his belt, and the strange motif of his earrings.

Charles gasped when a horde of Genoshan children rushed out into the middle of the street and emptied baskets of flowers in their path – calendulas, poppies, primroses, snapdragons – and fell onto their knees to kiss the hem of his robe.

“Their offering,” Erik told him. “And now you have to give them yours.”

“I do not know –” Charles began to protest, for he had nothing that did not already belong to Erik, nothing other his father’s locket and the ring around his finger.

“Your Gift, Charles.” Erik told him. Charles watched as he took a tarnished trinket from a child, shaped and remade it with his Gift until it was fit to be worn by a noble.

“Do not deny them this.” Charles felt the arm around his waist tighten warningly. “You cannot refuse me in this.”

Looking straight ahead, hesitantly, Charles reached out his hand to the nearest child, a little boy with large brown eyes and the flushed cheeks of a cherub. At the first touch of skin, he reached out with his Gift to soothe away the discomforts suffered by the child – the sting of the winter air, the coarse fabric scratching against delicate young skin, the lingering fear that his mother may realise that he had snuck out yesterday to play.

The boy gave a squeal of delight and turned to his mother, who hovered anxiously by the side of the street. There was a quick exchange of words between mother and son, before the peasant woman came stumbling forward and fell to her knees before Charles.

“A blessing, your Majesty,” she exclaimed, and bent her head down to kiss his cloth-wrapped feet. “A blessing from the Gods.”

“A blessing,” Erik repeated quietly next to him, as Charles touched the crown of her head and melted her pain away.


	8. Six (Part 2)

The heightened emotions of the crowd pressed in against him, suffocating in their intensity and overwhelming in their passion. Peasants, merchants, masters, apprentices -- they all clamoured against the silent wall of guards around him and Erik, trying to force their way through to catch a glimpse of their monarch and his Consort, and witness the miracle of Charles’ Gift, of which word had spread like fire across the thousands of those present.

The human barrier of the royal guard had been meant to be nothing more than a farce – Charles did not draw back when the lines finally broke and the crowd flooded the street in their eagerness. They showered the cobblestones with flowers, jostling amongst each other in their haste to get to the royal couple’s feet.

Charles pressed his hand against the top of the heads of those who kissed his wrapped feet, and let his Gift ease their worries and heartbreaks, dull the pain of those suffering from ailments and injuries. He felt both trapped from the weight of their desires, and liberated from the confines of his body, with his Gift soaring freely through the minds of the people falling to their feet before him.

The freeing of his Gift caused him to sway slightly on his feet – stripped of his shields and boundaries, it was unavoidable that he ended up drunk on the high of so many minds, freely presented to him without boundaries or reservation. He felt a firm hand at the small of his back. “Careful,” Erik warned, as he helped steady Charles. “I am not allowed to help you if you fall.” His hand remained curled protectively around Charles’ wrist, however, tightening slightly when Charles bent down to help an old man to his feet.

The man was incoherent in his gratitude as Charles soothed away the aches and pain brought by his age. “He’s going to die,” Charles said softly, as the man’s family came to lead his away. “He is going to die, and all I can give him is a lie.”

Erik’s fingers flexed around his wrist. “You have done nothing but made his journey easier, and they know it. The Gods may have chosen to bless us with our Gifts, but they have not made us omnipotent.” He inclined his head towards the hordes of adoring citizens. “Do try to smile; they want to see a young, happy Consort.” Charles straightened his back and carefully peeled away Erik’s fingers from his wrist. “A happy Consort, my Lord,” he said, curving his lips upwards.

Erik’s eyes were unreadable, but he did not reach out for Charles’ hand again. “Do not make the mistake of thinking you are invincible,” Erik said finally, his voice pitched so low that Charles had to lean in to hear him over the din of the crowd. “Many have made it, and paid the price.”

“Have you?” Charles asked, unable to help himself. “Have you once thought you were invincible then?”

“Mind your step.” Erik’s voice was tight, and his mind was closed, curled tightly into itself when Charles inadvertently brushed against it with his Gift.

***

Charles lost count of the exact number of steps taken once he passed the thousandth step. Halfway down to the gates of the citadel, at close to four miles and likely almost the eight thousandth step, his woollen wraps finally tore and fell apart, exposing his feet to the cold winter air. He scratched his left foot on the sharp edges of a loose stone not long after – no more than twenty steps later, in fact. The blood from the wound oozed out onto the cobblestones, staining the grey stones in a dark, sticky red.

Erik walked on two steps ahead of him; his feet were equally unbound, the wraps long since shredded to pieces, way before Charles had lost his. Erik’s impatience was betrayed clearly in his gait, the way he roughly kicked aside pebbles, stray branches strewn across the streets by eager supplicants, and broken glass flung upon the stones by religious sects to test their faith. Red blood trickled down the worn stones of the street with each step he took, and when he lifted his right foot again to nudge aside a glass shard, Charles could see a maze of cuts and lashes across the sole of his foot.

Charles looked down at his own feet, unscathed other than the cut on his left foot, and took his next step forward. The stones ahead were clear of debris, smooth and worn with the passage of time, untainted except for the crimson red of their King’s blood.

***

His feet were numb from the cold by as they reached the last five hundred steps. The bitter cold struck to the bone, flogged the bare skin of his feet, which felt as if they were going to flake and bleed under the harsh winds. The sharp sting under his left foot had long since faded into a dull pain, buried under fresh hurt and agony. His only relief came from his Gift – unbound and free, it seemed to develop an identity independent of his mortal body, fleeting from mind to mind like a free spirit unhindered by his physical aches.

The last leg of the offering led them down the famed stone stairs of Genosha, which stretched more than half a mile down to the grand arches of the citadel’s gates. The high priest of the ancient religion stepped forward at the head of the stairs and removed Charles’ outer robe, exposing the thinner satin damask under-robe. It provided scarce comfort against the cold winds – barely five minutes had passed, and his skin was already pebbling from the chill.

Erik appeared unperturbed, although he should be faring no better, stripped of his cloak and doublet, and left only with a thin silk undershirt to protect his upper body from the winter winds. He looked even more slender without the heavy cloak – with only the thin silk clinging to taut muscle, accentuating the fine bone structure of his shoulders and torso.

With them facing the winds, the high priest dipped a brush into crushed cochineal, and deftly drew the ancient symbols of the gods across their necks and arms. Charles could see where the symbols on his neck dipped down to the top of his sternum, and where they branched and blossomed like crimson vines across the skin of his forearms, right down to his wrists. The drawings were unfamiliar; he made to touch a symbol on the back of his hand – shaped like a sunburst exploding across his skin – but Erik’s hand darted out to catch Charles’ wrist.

“You must not touch them,” he said, “They are a prayer, and you may risk the wrath of the gods if you smear them before the final step.”

Charles carefully wrenched his wrist away from Erik’s grip. “What do they mean?” he asked, keeping his hands carefully curled into the fabric of his robes.

“For you – longevity, health, peace.” Erik gestured towards the starbursts at the back of Charles’ hands. “Glory.”

“None for children?” Charles tilted his head up, curious despite himself. “For fertility?” Surely it weighed heavily on Erik’s mind – that he should have his heir before the next winter.

Erik burst out laughing at that – it bubbled out unexpectedly, low and rumbling across the small space between them. “No,” he said, bending down to close that short distance, and bringing his hands to rest against the flat surface of Charles’ stomach. “Genosha will have its heir.”

Charles felt the warm gust of Erik’s breath against his cheek as Erik brushed his lips against his forehead. “Are you concerned on my behalf?” Erik asked. His mind was warm with pleasure; it must be the thought of children that brought him such joy – Erik loved them, wanted those he can legitimately call his own, as opposed to the bastards he no doubt fathered with his past lovers. Charles drew his Gift away from Erik’s mind, carefully detaching his thoughts from fantasies of himself, heavy with Erik’s child.

He moved his hands from his own robes to clutch the thin silk of Erik’s shirt when Erik tilted his head up to press their lips together. He was expected to be grateful, to play the role of a dutiful Consort – that meant parting his lips and leaning in towards his husband’s body, chasing Erik’s lips as Erik drew back.

Charles took a deep breath and pressed himself against Erik’s side. He was always grateful.

***

The ancient stairs leading down to the citadel gates were designed to be treacherous – erected in an earlier dynasty, they were meant to test the devotion of those who chose to follow the ancient religion. Those without faith or deemed unworthy by the gods would plummet to their death; those who passed the test would be granted the gift of life.

“Follow my steps closely,” Erik had whispered against his ear, low enough that even the high priest could not hear, before pulling away. _Use your Gift to trace my mind_ , were his unspoken words.

Erik’s mind was flung wide open – calm and resolute – as he slowly made his way down the slippery steps. Charles stumbled along like a hapless child; he noticed Erik taking a pause at each near-slip Charles made – a foolish move on Erik’s part, for if Charles fell, he would only bring Erik with him to his death.

_They have always favoured His Majesty._ Moira’s words came unbidden to his mind. _And you are to be his Consort._

The steep stone stairs stretched out into the horizon – Erik’s back was turned against him, but his left arm was half stretched out towards Charles, beckoning him to follow closely behind. The symbol on the back of his hand was at odds with everything that defined Erik – or what Charles knew of him. It begged an answer, and Charles could not help touching Erik’s mind with his Gift to search for the meaning of the symbol Erik chose for himself – that of a dove with its wings spread in mid-flight.

_Penance_.

***

He was almost delirious from the cold; his feet were long since deadened to the chill and pain of torn skin from the strain of having to scramble continuously for purchase on the weather-worn stone ledges – when they finally arrived at the bottom of the stone stairs. Charles stumbled at the final step, swaying slightly on his feet, before finally losing his footing and falling down towards the hard stone floor. The expected pain of connecting with stone never came – his fall was broken by strong arms, and he was surrounded by the familiar scent of pine and metal, before he succumbed to that long-desired, _blessed_ bliss of unconsciousness.

***

When he blinked his eyes open, he was wrapped warmly in thick velvet coverlets – a fire roared in the grate in the centre of the room, which was steeped in the scent of herbs and potions.

“Charles.” A warm chalice was pressed against his lips. “Slowly,” Moira said, as Charles choke on the warm ale in his eagerness. Erik’s mind lingered at the edge of his consciousness – looking up, he spotted him conversing with Master Ambrose, who had Hank hovering like an anxious overgrown child next to him.

The ale worked – at least, feeling had returned to his appendages, and his cheeks were warm from the drink and the heat in the room, which must be sweltering hot, judging from the small beads of sweat on Moira’s forehead.

“You need a few stitches for your left foot, Your Majesty.” Master Ambrose lifted the coverlet under Erik’s watchful gaze, and gently cupped Charles’ left foot up to inspect the cut underneath it. “The cut is too deep to heal properly on its own.”

_It is no deeper than those under Erik’s feet_ , Charles thought, but he allowed Master Ambrose to dab wine on his foot, and remained still at the first prick of the needle through his skin.

“Allow me,” Erik said, waving the physician away. The needle developed a life of its own, weaving in and out of Charles’ torn flesh in flashes so silver, so quick that the pain from the piercings failed to register before the wound had been neatly stitched up.

“Thank you.” The bed sank slightly under Erik’s weight as Erik sat down next to him. The warmth of another body was comforting, and he allowed himself to lean into it when Erik pressed a hand against the back of his shoulder and to his waist, so that he fitted snugly into the curve of Erik’s arms.

Charles reached out for the hand around his waist – carefully brushed his Gift against Erik’s mind to ease the discomfort of the wounds and sores under his feet.

Erik carefully drew his hand away. “Don’t,” he said, a clear note of warning in his voice.

Charles snapped his Gift back and kept his hands curled tightly into the sheets at his sides. The rebuke stung, despite his efforts to remind himself that it was his own foolishness that had led to it. His cheeks burned slightly from the perceived rejection, and the shame lingered, long after the physicians and attendants had bowed their way out, and the fire had burned itself to ashes in the hearth.


	9. Seven (Part 1)

He was roused by a gentle nudge to his shoulder; blinking his eyes open, he noticed that dawn has not yet arrived – the skies were pitch black, and the air had that bone-searing chill that belonged to the night. Charles shivered slightly in the cold, before he was drawn close to a warm body. Erik’s lips pressed against the nape of his neck. “We need to ride out soon,” he muttered, his breath warm and damp against Charles’ skin.

Erik seemed contented, if strangely melancholic; the pain across the sole of his feet was hard to ignore, not with his discomfort seeping into the edges of Charles’ mind like the slow burn of wine across lacerated skin.

_Why_ , Charles wanted to ask. _Why refuse my Gift_. Instead, he curled his fingers around the hand at his waist. “Did the gods accept my offering?”

Erik hummed behind him, his mind projecting a warm sense of pleasure and approval. “Yes,” he said, entwining long slender fingers with Charles’ own stubbier ones. “You were magnificent.” He turned Charles’ head slightly to the side to brush his lips against his cheek. “Absolutely magnificent.”

Charles felt Erik shift and stretch behind him, before a warm hand pressed gently against the cut on his left foot. “Does it still hurt very much?” Erik asked, carefully tracing the stitches on Charles’ skin.

Charles shook his head slightly. “Padded shoes, perhaps,” Erik decided. “The shoemakers should be able to see it done in the hour before we depart. It is fortunate that you will not have to walk much outdoors.” The mattress dipped slightly as Erik shifted his weight and got off the bed. Charles stirred himself and sat up – momentarily disconcerted at the loss of the warm body next to his.

Erik retrieved a velvet cloak from the wardrobe, and returned to Charles’ side to drape it over his shoulders. “Get yourself ready,” he said, “The servants have already spread out something for you to break your fast.”

He walked stiffly – try as he might, the hurt caused by at least seven cuts that required stitches could not be brushed off so easily.

“Does it still hurt very much?” Charles parroted; it was petty of him, but he could not resist the chance.

Erik gazed at him, considering, before sitting himself back down by Charles’ side. “It does; as it should.” He lifted Charles’ feet and placed them on his lap, gently kneading the sore muscles along Charles’ lower calves. Charles chewed his lip, swallowing down instinctive gasps of pain when Erik’s deft fingers found tight knots of muscle and ruthlessly applied pressure where it hurt most.

The pain turned into something entirely different when Erik reached his ankles – Charles snatched back his right foot with a squeal, scrambling back up the bed when Erik tried to grab at his ankles.

“Ticklish, are you.” Erik seemed to find it extremely amusing.

“My Lord,” Charles tried, when Erik finally got hold of an ankle – his left, this time. “ _Erik_ ,” he gasped, when Erik pressed him down against the mattress, his fingernails scraping playfully against the inside of his ankle.

“Please.” Erik had taken to spreading his body across Charles’ and pressing him into mattress. “Please,” he squeaked, bursting into peals of laughter as Erik fluttered his fingers over the sensitive sides of his waist, tapping them across his ribcage as if Charles was a harpsichord to be played.

“You beg very earnestly.” Erik was smiling as he mercilessly tickled Charles’ sides, refusing to let him up for breath, until Charles’ laughter transformed into gasps and short, choking stutters.

“Please, please, _please_.” Charles’ feet brushed against Erik’s has he writhed on the mattress; he paused, gasping, as he rubbed his feet against swollen welts and rough scabs. The fingers tickling the sides of his waist came to a sudden stop – Erik’s body strung as taut as a bowstring as he visibly struggled not to flinch at the touch of skin upon torn flesh.

“Why?” Charles asked quietly. “Why won’t you let me help you?” He raised a hand to press it against the back of Erik’s neck, drawing him closer – from this distance, he could see every strand of Erik’s eyelashes, half-shielding the greyish-green of his eyes, like dark ferns hanging over still lake water.

“It would diminish the weight of my offering to the gods.” Erik tilted his head up slightly, the movement a slight push against Charles’ palm on his neck. He could sense the conflict in Erik, the desire to both twist away from the touch and lean into it.

“Is mine considered any less worthy than yours?” Charles pressed insistently. He watched the slight rise and fall of Erik’s ribcage, the shift in the folds of Erik’s undershirt, from where Erik crouched over him, held in place with a simple press of Charles’ hand. “If my Gift is seen as a blessing to your people, surely it is seen as such for you?”

“They are your people as well; do not speak as if they are foreign to you.” There was a slight hint of heat to Erik’s voice, although he remained still under Charles’ hand. “This is a sacrifice _I,_ and I alone, have to make.” Erik’s breathing sped up; his mouth pressed in a thin, strained line, as his voice softened to a low whisper. “The gods demand a sacrifice for every favour you ask from them – I have asked for one, and I plan to ask for one more.”

Charles furrowed his brows. “Is this payment for the first, or for the second?”

He watched as the light in Erik’s eyes dimmed and flickered out. “The second. The first has already been paid – with the blood of someone dearest to me.” He lowered his head in what almost seemed like defeat. “I cannot risk it again.”

Charles moved his hand away from Erik’s neck to press it against the curve of Erik’s right cheek. Overcome by his curiosity, he probed gently around the edges of Erik’s mind with his Gift, which flexed and undulated under the press of Charles’ powers, but miraculously did not yield. Charles carefully withdrew his mind – any more pressure, and he very well end up inadvertently breaking the carefully constructed shields around Erik’s mind.

“My Consort,” Erik’s voice was stern, but Charles could not sense any anger in his surface thoughts. “Would you mind telling me what you were looking for?” It was clear enough that he had sensed the attempt – impossible for him not to, not with Charles stumbling around the surface of his mind without any direction.

Charles found himself mesmerised by that steady green gaze; Erik _was_ compelling, there was no denying that, despite his distant aloofness and detachment from emotional intimacy. There was an unknown factor about him that piqued Charles’ interest, an underlying quality that almost induced Charles to set aside his own resentment and agenda to satisfy his curiosity.

He realised that Erik was still waiting for an answer. “Who was that person who was so important to you?”

Erik stiffened slightly, turning his face away from Charles’ hand and breaking the short spell between them. “My Lady Mother.” And Charles felt it, that overwhelming grief and guilt that he had sensed so fleetingly the last time Erik spoke of his mother.

Charles took Erik’s face in his hands, brought it close enough that he could feel the warm puffs of Erik’s breath against his face. “Let me do this for you.” He had never felt more foolish in his life, making the same offer for someone who had already rejected it. “At least let me help you remember her as she ought to be.” Sweat beaded on Erik’s forehead despite the early morning chill. Charles brushed them away, and briefly imagined he felt Erik lean into his palm as he thumbed away the sweat.

“Yes.” The word of consent was barely more than a whisper.

Charles pressed his fingers against Erik’s temple, and this time, Erik’s mind yielded beautifully, the complex layers unfurling like the petals of a blossom under Charles’ Gift. Under Erik’s unconscious guidance, Charles traced the memories as far back as Erik could remember, when he was barely able to crawl without his mother’s help, to the years spent under his mother’s tutelage after his father’s death, and finally, a figure plunging down from the cliff to crash and splatter against the treacherous rocks.

Charles blinked rapidly. “She chose to take her own life for you. She _chose_ to do it, Erik.”

“She had to bear the consequences of my choices.” Erik’s eyelashes were darkened with moisture; his mind was all shuttered and blockaded again, and Charles suddenly wanted nothing more than to tear down his barriers, have something more than these half-truths to survive on for what would predictably be the rest of his life.

But no, he could not do that – not when the memories of Lord Wyngarde retching over his own feet, and the Genoshan soldiers collapsing like dominoes in the Westchester throne room were still fresh in his mind. He had to learn _control_ , hone his Gift to the point where it would obey his every precise command.

Instead, he heaved a slow inhalation of breath, and thumbed away the moisture gathering at the sides of Erik’s eyes.

***

Sunfire curvetted and pranced on the spot, straining against his reins when he saw Charles approaching. The gelding was fresh from being released from the stables – “We never quite managed to temper his exuberance, Your Majesty,” the stable boy half-whispered to Charles as he handed over the reins. “He simply refused to heed anyone else after you left, not even the stable master.”

Charles rested a hand against Sunfire’s neck. “He is simply fresh,” he said, running his fingers through the horse’s mane.

Erik came up to him, stiff and almost diffident – there was an awkwardness to their interactions since Erik’s overt display of vulnerability in the morning, an uncertainty that gnawed away at the fabrics of Charles’ carefully woven illusion of their relationship. “You can handle him,” he asked, and in reply, Charles put a foot on the stirrup and swung himself over Sunfire’s back with ease, the horse as docile as the tamest mare under him.

Emma came up to them – she was to remain behind; and was apparently elated about it. “Enforced travel on horseback,” she said disdainfully. “When I could simply get Azazel to transport me with a lot less discomfort if I travelled alone.” She gave Charles a look that was almost coy. “A blessing from the gods, Your Majesty, that I now no longer have to act as your husband the King’s bodyguard every time he goes on royal progress or to war.” Her thoughts flicked towards Wyngarde and Essex, standing off to the side and conversing with a few members of the royal guard.

“You hardly see it as a hardship, if it gives you a chance to toy with those with lesser Gifts,” Erik interjected sardonically.

She laughed merrily at that. “Oh, don’t pretend you are not amused by it, Your Majesty. A lady must have her sport, after all. Some, however, can be rather a challenge.” _It is always wiser to shield, than to retaliate only when attacked, especially when your Gift is still so volatile_. _Perhaps your husband could give you some advice in that regard._

Erik narrowed his eyes slightly, obviously suspecting that a conversation had been taking place behind his back. “Emma,” he said warningly.

“My Lord Consort,” she said sweetly. Oh, the Lady Frost was _incorrigible_ , Charles thought, when that suspicious gaze was turned towards him instead.

“The Lady Frost was telling me that you could perhaps give me some advice on the art of shielding.” He heard Emma’s laughter fading off into the distance, accompanied with a louder mental equivalent of it in Charles’ mind. _Oh, darling_.

Erik glanced towards Emma’s disappearing silhouette. “She has a very peculiar sense of humour,” he said. “And a tendency to stick her nose into affairs that do not concern her.” He shifted a little – sat upon the horse, Charles could see how the morning light caught in his eyelashes, bringing out faint hints of gold that danced across the dark brown fringes.

He reached down to cup Erik’s face in allusion to his gesture earlier in the morning. “You will find that I’m a most willing learner, my Lord.”

Erik started, obviously taken aback, before leaning back onto the balls of his feet, and swinging his arms around Charles’ neck in return. “I do think you’re more adept in learning the exact opposite of what I mean to teach, with your tricks in coaxing a man’s deepest secrets out of him, and learning his greatest vulnerabilities. Why haven’t you torn down my shields yet? I can sense that you want to, through the biological link that we have.” He thumbed the bonding gland at the side of Charles’ neck.

“I have no interest in seeing you dead.” It came out colder than Charles’ had meant it, and he meant to correct himself, say   _I wasn’t sure of my Gift, not yet_ , but Erik’s mind instantly went cold, his grip tightening slightly around Charles’ neck.

“Of course, I am your Lord.”

Charles released his hands from Erik’s face, suddenly feeling as if the arms around his neck were a slave collar, and the deep crimson robes, slit right up to his waist for riding, were almost stifling despite the winter cold.

***


	10. Seven (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking forever with this! I didn't even manage to finish what I planned to write -- there are another two scenes to this chapter, to be honest. Work and real life (moving house) got to me.

They were to use the common trade route to travel down to the citadel gates. Constructed at the beginning of Erik’s reign, it had a foundation of crushed limestone, and protective layers of six sided capstones to cater to the traders’ wagons and merchants’ carriages which trundled daily to and fro from the heart of Genosha’s citadel.  Charles had been impressed when Hank had described it to him – Westchester relied mainly upon dirt roads which turned muddy and treacherous at the onset of winter, and he was absolutely blown away when he turned to look back upon the procession that trundled down the winding route.

They rode at the head of the progress, with three of the eight, Lord Howlett, the Lord Gabriel Summers, and the Lord Azazel, who seemed closest to Erik; he and the Lady Frost both. Behind them followed the courtiers of the outer council – Wyngarde and Essex, the lesser earls and marquises of Erik’s choosing, followed by their servants, musicians and entertainers, each carrying banners and pennants which were dyed in the colours and emblazoned with the sigils of the Houses.

Erik himself rode on a great caparisoned warhorse with a sleek black coat that blended very well with the almost-black crimson of his fitted waist-length doublet. He cut an impressive silhouette as a solitary figure at the forefront of his retinue, cold and imposing against the white and grey landscape. Charles drew his cloak tighter around himself – the Genoshan winter, even as close to spring as it was, was still a lot harsher than the temperate weather in Westchester.

He slowed his pace, letting himself fall back from the head of the procession. “Charles.” Raven poked her head out of her carriage as it caught up with him. Moira was seated next to her, head ducked down in focus on her reading. There was no one else whom Charles trusted as much as Moira, and for Raven, he would have no one else.  “May I ride with you?”

The carriage rolled to a stop at Charles’ spoken command, and he held out his arms to help Raven mount when she darted out of the carriage. The warmth of her body against his was comforting, and Charles pulled her tighter against his chest, ignoring the weight of Erik’s eyes on him. The scrutiny irked him slightly, after the morning's altercation and tacit rejection by Erik of his Gift. Charles could interpret Erik's reactions, his cold aloofness and steely demeanour as nothing else.

They had not spoken a word to each other since the morning, and they did not speak beyond what was required for ceremony when they were hosted in the chapel bordering the edge of the citadel and the counties beyond. Even Raven picked up on the tension between them, and dinner was a cold, awkward affair, where they focused on everyone but each other.

Charles found himself paying undue attention to Essex and Wyngarde, lightly brushing their minds with his Gift as he thoughtfully chewed on his lamb. There was an extremely heavy bias in favour of the Gifted in Erik’s court -- his eight were all Gifted to varying degrees. It was a peculiar situation born out of circumstance more than anything else, it seemed. Genosha was a relatively new country which practised extremely liberal immigration policies, and it attracted the shunned, the ostracised, the abnormal like honey attracted flies.

Essex was an anomaly - there was a strange echo to his mind, an otherness, that Charles had never seen before. The feeling of wrongness was almost overwhelming, as if Essex’s Gift was truly a curse, something that did not belong to his mind.

"You felt it," Erik said, later that night, when he was curled up against Charles' back and running his finger idly along the curve of his neck. Charles did not quite know what to make of this latest attempt at a peace offering. Erik seemed to use the promise of  knowledge as a tether; and it tended to be effective, held out at arm's length, it had not taken long for Charles to succumb to curiosity, despite his better judgement.

Like now. "What do you mean?" he asked finally.

"Essex." Erik sounded insufferably calm. "You realised it during dinner; it was written all over your face."

Charles bristled at the assumption. "And you are an excellent judge of what's going on in my mind.” He snapped his mouth shut, not intending to give Erik any more leverage than what he already had.

“He’s not one of us,” he said finally, after a long, awkward pause, cursing himself for caving once again. “Not Gifted naturally, the way we are.” The was something artificial and contrived about the man’s abilities. Charles would not call something as twisted as that a Gift.

Erik hummed non-committally. “Emma has mentioned the same, although she was unable to identify the source of Essex’s powers.” His next words were surprisingly soft, tentative, even, whispered against Charles’ ear like a promise. “I’m sorry, for this morning.”

Charles turned around to face him, surprise flooding his mind and no doubt showing on his countenance. Erik had never apologised; the one other occasion Charles had displayed his temper, he had only chastised him for it and ridiculed Charles’ inability to school his own expressions.

“I’m sorry,” Erik repeated, and this time, his words were punctuated with an apologetic curl of emotion from his mind. Charles latched onto it and examined the emotion critically, turning it over with his Gift before releasing his grip on Erik’s mind.

“I realise I may not have been the wisest when it came to choosing my words,” Charles finally replied. “I did not mean the words the way they sound -- I only meant to say that I did not trust my control enough to be reasonably assured that I would not harm you.”

Erik’s gaze was steady, his eyes - now jade-green in colour - fixed on Charles’ with an impenetrable calm that reminded Charles of his stare during their first meeting, in the dust-swept throne room of Graymalkin Castle. “I realised that, after I had the time to reflect on it.” His grip around Charles’ wrist was warm, almost comforting, as he nuzzled gently against the bonding gland. Biological impulses, Charles thought, as his heartbeat sped up at the contact.

“I’m sorry, my Lord.”

“Don’t be,” Erik mumbled against his skin, his thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles into the flesh of Charles’ wrist. “I should have been more cognisant of your situation. You are, after all, only making the best out of unfortunate circumstances.” Charles stared out across Erik’s shoulder, at the slow fire burning in the hearth of their chambers. They have quarrelled over this before -- over Erik’s expectations of _gratitude_ , which admittedly, wasn’t entirely undeserved, if Charles allowed himself to reflect on it. Even so, the arrogant presumptuousness grated on him.

“We all make our sacrifices, and no one would consider being with you a hardship.” Charles spread his legs willingly as Erik undid the laces holding his robe together. Erik’s arousal pressed up against his hip, a hard presence that could not be ignored, as Erik gave him a playful nip on his ear. He was prepared, this time, at least, having rubbed the oil into his channel during his bath.

“You do.” Charles did not reply to that particular observation for a while, chest heaving and mouth falling open in a light gasp as Erik’s erection pressed into him. It was sex for a purpose, so he could bear Erik his heir, and that served his purpose just as well, because he needed that child to solidify his position in Erik’s court. Whatever concessions Erik may have made for him politically, they were just that -- concessions. Favours. Charity. So sex it was, and if he could enjoy it in the meantime, all the better. Erik had always been nothing but gentle.

“Do you always have to argue with what I say, _Erik_?” Erik’s breath hitched at the name, the movement of his hips stuttering, and in that moment, Charles felt _powerful_. Biology. He had read enough texts, experienced enough of sex by now to know how it worked in practice. He tightened his legs around Erik’s waist and drew him in closer. He could tell his body was acclimatising itself to penetration; there was hardly any pain now when Erik entered him; just a slight discomfort of having his sphincter breached. “You are beautiful. Your Gift is exquisite. You give me very beautiful presents. I would be a fool to say otherwise.”

“Charles,” Erik pressed his head against his shoulder, strands of dark brown hair tickling Charles' nose as he pushed himself deeper into Charles' body.

"You also have a very pleasing scent," Charles muttered, slipping into a comfortable half doze as his fingers traced the line of Erik's neck, down the side and to where it met his shoulder -- imagining in a wild moment what Erik would be like, if he were an omega. No different, perhaps. Erik's experiences shaped who he was, not his biological traits. He didn't even have most of the traditional alpha features -- too slender and fine-boned to be representative of the gender -- although he could certainly be considered attractive, despite being unconventionally so.  

There was something comfortable in this slow pace they’ve taken up, a careful push and pull of Erik’s cock in his body, oil trickling down his thighs as Erik dragged his cock out to the tip, before slowly driving back in. He lightly nipped at the base of Erik's throat in petty retaliation when the knot caught at the rim of his anus, a light grazing of teeth at first that tore into flesh when the knot continued swelling in him. Charles felt his eyes drooping as Erik’s cock pulsed in him, already lulled into a near-sleep by the his exhaustion and the slow pace of their fucking.

His teeth dragged across the soft skin of Erik’s neck when Erik tried to twist his head away. The slight hitch in Erik’s breath snapped him back to full attention. There was going to be a scar, he thought, although he did not release the skin from between his teeth. It gave him a strange comfort, biting down and tasting the warm blood, and Erik didn’t seem to begrudge him this transgression, at least, allowing him to mark the skin as he liked, after he realised that Charles would not let go.

Despite his drowsiness, he remained surprisingly alert. A rarity -- he tended to be less than fully lucid during the duration of the knotting. He gave Erik’s thigh a slight nudge with his knee. “Essex,” he reminded.

Erik blinked in surprise at the question, evidently surprised that Charles was still in the mood for conversation. “Yes?”

“The Lady Frost hinted at you using me as protection.” He nudged at Erik’s thigh again. It wouldn’t do to have him fall asleep whilst Charles was entirely awake. “Should I try probing?” Something indefinable shifted in Erik’s eyes, coupled with an uneasy twitch across their faint biological awareness of each other.

“Not for now -- he has his supporters.” Reticence, which meant Erik was still wary of Essex, despite the poorly concealed dislike which simmered underneath the calm facade. “Do not give him a reason to voice any grievances against you.” He felt a warm brush of skin against his cheek. “Patience.” Erik’s voice was wry, self-deprecating. “I’ve learned that the hard way.”

Charles closed his eyes. “Then I will learn what you advocate so strongly then. To shield.” And when he had learned enough about control to do so without causing harm, he will tear down each and every one of Erik’s carefully constructed barriers and learn all of his secrets. Perhaps he could relieve himself of this frustration then.

“That would be advisable,” Erik replied, shifting slightly, so that the subsiding knot bumped up against the rim of Charles’ hole. Erik hadn’t meant to condescend; there was pure concern across the surface of his mind, at least, although it was layered over with blurred images of schemes and plots -- Charles doubted Erik would be forthcoming with those thoughts, not unless he pushed him with his Gift.

“And I always abide by your advice,” Charles said, tone acidic, still unable to resist the opportunity for sarcasm. He felt a soft touch to the side of his neck, fingers sliding across the bonding gland and down his spine, before Erik wrapped his arms back around him.

“We shall see.” Erik slid out of him, the head of his cock popping free with a thin trail of oil and come that trickled down Charles’ inner thigh. “Hmm?”

Charles carefully bit down at the mark he had left at the side of Erik’s neck. “I assure you; I will abide by it.”


End file.
